


The Not So Gentle Art of Making Enemies

by Walor



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: 60's setting, Angst, Father Todd, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Prison AU, Tags May Change, Thriller, no capes AU, offensive language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14562816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor
Summary: On Monday, July 3rd, 1964 death row inmate Cyrus Gold, a day before his execution mutilates the face of Blackgate's assistant chaplain complicating the already tense political atmosphere in Gotham County, California. Head Chaplain, Daniel Leone, is overwhelmed and seeks a local replacement that comes in the form of Jason Todd, a young preacher who is hardly happy about his new assignment.The inmates and staff don't seem to be too happy about it either.





	1. Please, Mr. Jailer - Wynona Carr

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another prison fic, yes i am an easy to read asshole. This fic will have changes to the tags/pairings in the future so be sure to keep an eye on them to skip over chapters that may include potential triggers.
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy the ride.

                        

_“People speak sometimes about the "bestial" cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.”_

\- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

* * *

 

On Monday, July 3th, 1964 at approximately 7:30 am in the morning an ambulance was called down the local prison. The reason, one of the inmates had torn off the lower portion of the prison chaplain's face with his teeth. The chaplain, who knew the inmate's death day was quickly approaching, felt terrible that this inmate had spent most his time at the prison, Blackgate Penitentiary, with the restraint of a bite mask. Now the warden, who no one liked but did a good enough job at keeping the prisoners inside the prison rather than overrunning the local town of Gotham County, was a bit of a hard ass and the prison chaplain assumed the bite mask had been kept on more out of cruelty than necessity. Unfortunately, for the paramedics, the emergency room staff, the chaplain's wife, and the chaplain himself his bleeding heart hurt a little too hard for a man a jury had considered "so devoid of empathy and compassion, that rabid animals possessed more humanity than inmate #74221." Which only made the entire situation in Gotham County worse.

Gotham County was a small town that began as a construction site for the Southern Pacific Railroad in the late 1880's. The men and women that first came out for work liked the quiet, expansive stretch of the Mojave Desert and stayed long after the rail was finished. Bordering Death Valley and the bottom half of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, Gotham County was—and had stayed—a small town. It was too small a county, with no attractive landmarks around it--save for the flat, rolling dunes of the Mojave--to draw in new residents. It still received business from all sorts of people who were driven off the main highway, route 66, either by winds or the late hour traveling from Southern California out to Las Vegas. The county residents didn't care for them much, but they hardly stayed long enough to make a dent in the overall tranquility of the town. It's probably why the California Senate chose Gotham County for its latest maximum-security prison.

Blackgate Penitentiary was built a few miles off a faded fire road in an ancient floodplain of the dried-up Gotham River. It took a record of five years to build, from 1911-1916, with construction crews the state had brought in from Los Angeles. They didn't bother hiring any of the men in town, even after their work on the railroad, concerned that they would sabotage the prison considering no one in Gotham wanted it built there. The town ended up watching, silently fuming, as Blackgate Penitentiary, a prison for the worst of the worst, appeared right in their backyard. A den of murderers, rapists, and thieves whose shadow loomed over the county in the rays of the distant morning sun. It was hard to ignore and harder to forget. By the turn of the world wars and Red Scare, Blackgate had faded into obscurity, nothing more than a permanent eyesore to most Gotham natives. There were more important issues to worry about. Parents who'd lost their sons, wives their husbands, sisters their brothers, and veterans consumed with bloody night terrors that left them sweat-drenched in the middle of the dark of night. Gotham was still, even well after the economic boom of the Second World War, suffering from the hardship of the Great Depression. Houses left empty, business fronts closed, and everyone who left to find opportunity had stayed gone.

Blackgate had been the only thing that saved Gotham County from turning into another ghost town along the stretch of highway 66. Criminals kept being sent in and the prison wings kept expanding. First, there was only one cellblock, then there were two, then they added a mental wing, and then an onsite tank factory that was built when the Second World War started and then converted to automobiles once it ended. Every family had someone who worked in or for the prison, only a small percent worked in Gotham County’s small borders anymore. The town should have no longer existed, but irony was as cruel a joke as fate. The locals were happy to ignore the issue of where the town got their money for the rest of their lives. Had it not been for the trial of 1954 at Slaughter Swamp Ranch that brought the entire county into the media spotlight.

"Jason?"

Jason turns away from the irritating drawl of the announcer on the radio who starts rattling on and on about the popular case of 1954. Standing in the doorway of the church back room is Richard Nielsen, Gotham's bishop. An older man with few remaining strands of brown in his white hair regards Jason with the turned down frown of his mouth. His patience--which was a thing to be marveled--had clearly run out upon seeing Jason, who had an unfortunate habit of annoying anyone in the near vicinity of his person.

"What are you doing?" Nielsen asks, glancing at the television and back to Jason. The bags of his eyes are darker under the dim lights in the church's back room. No doubt exaggerated at the idea of dealing with Jason, surely.

Jason had been murmuring along to Nielsen’s voice reciting the Nicene Creed earlier. Until, at least, the radio had turned on automatically broadcasting a storm warning for all parts of Southern California for rain--not that it would ever make it over the mountains to reach Gotham—and stayed on for the news. It would have been awhile before anyone came calling for him outside of the bland, white room in the back of the church—normally reserved for children early Saturday morning—so he listened. It had become, as of late, Jason’s own personal space. The only place in Gotham he fit in.

"Listening to the weather," Jason says and turns his head back to the radio. "I already know the Nicene Creed by heart, didn't think I had to be listening in your sermon."

Jason Todd isn’t a nice man. The church is trying to change his image with the incoming parishioners and younger children who come for Bible study on weekends by hiding him away until he can come out with offerings of tasty donuts and juice. Positive reinforcement or something of the like, but no number of donuts can hide the way Jason’s face naturally rests; an irritated scowl that seems to drip condescension. The way Jason almost looks down on the people that approach him down the upturned bridge of his nose is a common complaint. Jason knows he’s the only priest in their church that people seem to actively seek out when they want to scare a friend or relative into joining.

Jason doesn’t actively try to alienate himself from the parish and other clergy members. He just lacks the patience to deal with people who can’t quite listen well and he’s the only one in the church that he knows of, to have called a particularly asinine man a “moronic illiterate.” That got him made a permanent resident of the back room.

"Are you busy?"

It’s a question for the sake of propriety; both know Jason is hardly a busy man. "Not at all.”

“If you can spare a moment do you mind bringing out the food? There are a few people staying to talk and they missed breakfast.” Nielsen hesitates and adds, "please, don't make a scene." Then slips back out through the door.

Jason gets up from the table, takes the plate of powdered donuts waiting on the counter and ducks out of the room. The congregation has whittled down to a mere fifteen people spaced out among the pews chatting with one another. They quiet down as Jason walks past them over to the table next to the high alter. He places the donuts the table and starts greeting the remaining church members.

Majority of the congregation are older men and women, far into their sixties or early fifties. Jason happens to be one of the youngest people in the church and Gotham at twenty-three. It bothers the men a lot more than the women, having a young man tell them how to live their lives. Can see it in the tense line of their shoulders and eyes burning along the curve of his neck as he moves around the pews and says his good-mornings. The women smile and pinch his cheeks. Less concerned with God and more of Jason’s own unexceptional past.

_Isn't he just a darling? Been too long since Gotham had such a young new face._

_Where are you from originally, honey? Did family bring you all the way out here?_

_That accent is Manhattan, New York, isn't it? Well, aren't you a long way from home._

Gossip-starved they eat up Jason's words the same way alcoholic men do his assurances in confession. Prattling on about what New York is like from television shows like _I Love Lucy_ \--despite never having been--or the latest diet trend of the starlets in Hollywood from Audrey Hepburn to Elizabeth Taylor. Jason listens and nods, laughs when they ask him if he'd considered hanging up the cassock for the silver screen-- _since you're handsome and young_ \--until their husbands chase Jason away with a glare and a bark to their wives.

"It's so awful about what happened to Father Reilly, absolutely terrible," one of the women, Ms. Fay Gunn--she corrected him the first time with a pinch to his ass when he walked by--starts. She eyes Jason with the intensity of hawk swooping down on a field mouse. Hides her little smirk behind the edge of the church's bible. "What do you think, Father Todd?"

 _What do you know, kid?_ Jason purses his lips. Weighs the option of telling Gunn the truth, which she would then spread to every person in Gotham who wasn’t deaf enough to listen at the risk of Nielsen’s lecture about privacy versus telling her a lie. That she would still spread of course, but it would be erroneous, most likely horribly dramatic and gruesome that would have concerned men and women pounding on the local sheriff's door.

"An unfortunate accident. Reilly is an extremely compassionate man and misjudged the situation. We're all deeply affected by this and are helping cover the cost of his surgery, out of our own pockets. If you'd like to donate to help with his medical expenses, there is a box near the front of the room where you can leave it." A recited speech, but it sounded a lot better than _old fool couldn't listen to one simple rule_.

Gunn's smile wavers just a bit before she nods, a deep and sympathetic thing. Jason isn't so stupid to confuse hunger with tragic understanding. "I heard from Ms. Thompkins that it was grotesque, like something out of a crime book and she served in _Japan_."

Jason's own smile tightens. Leslie was hardly that much of an exaggerator. "Sometimes things look worse than they often are. I couldn't tell you much of anything else, besides this is inappropriate talk for the church, Ms. Gunn."

"I was only curious, dear boy," Gunn huffs and fans herself with the opened pages of her Bible. "What with all of those news vans and protestors coming out to the county to protest the death of one animal of a man. You'd think something like this would convince them that some men deserve to be punished with death, but apparently, even flesh-eaters get a pass nowadays."

"Ms. Gunn-"

"Todd?" Nielsen calls out a few steps away. He is standing, calmly at the high altar. Absorbed in a passage he looks to be reading, but Jason can see the twitch of his hand as he skims the paragraph and the way he tilts ever-so-slightly in their direction. _And he thinks Gunn is nosy._ "Come over here, please."

“Excuse me,” Jason says. He doesn’t bother to hide the relief in his smile or slow his hurried steps away from her pew. There are dozens of ways Jason would rather spend his day and listening to Gunn try to wheedle information out of him is as torturous as the town’s monthly public meetings. Nielsen turns a page, licks his finger and toys with a corner of the paper, creased and well worn, without bothering to look up. They stand together in silence while the rest of the remaining men and women chat, eat, and finally filter out into the hot noonday sun.

Nielsen is reading a passage from Job, " _Make me know my transgression and my sin. Why dost thou hide thy face, and count me as thy enemy_?" when he finally sighs. “What is our purpose, Jason?”

Jason furrows his brows at the sudden and vague question. He toys around with the answer in his head, one that would satisfy the church and another that’s pure honesty. Neither would please Nielsen, no doubt, but he’s always viewed Jason as nothing more than a wayward boy who had chosen to experiment in the love of God rather than that of a needle or women.

“To teach,” Jason says, it’s as safe an answer as he can give. Nielsen glances at him out of the corner of his eye and thumbs through another page.

“Is that all?” Not safe enough.

Jason wets his lips, gives it a few seconds and continues. “To provide a safe and instructive space for those who wish to learn God’s word?”  
Nielsen shuts the book. He looks at Jason with a raised brow, the deep lines of his wrinkles drawn tighter by the severity of his frown. “If I wanted someone to offer non-genuine answers I would have asked for Ms. Gunn’s company.”

Jason fights back the urge to roll his eyes. Richard Nielsen has been a preacher at the Gotham County Church of Christ long before Jason’s parents had stopped eating glue in kindergarten. Has spent most of his life dealing with men and women who could out bullshit Jason on any given day of the week. Wouldn’t have survived his tenure of being Gotham’s biggest shoulder to cry on without that ability. Even if it made him completely non-empathetic and stonily indifferent to whatever plight someone sought him out for. Tends to immediately observe the worst in people.

“What is our purpose then?”

Nielsen holds the Bible out to Jason. He reaches to take it only for Nielsen to move it away the second his fingers skim across the worn leather binding.

“Our purpose is to provide guidance and a sanctuary for the community to come together and coalesce into a whole and loving unit. We are here to offer non-judgmental counsel to those who seek it from the lessons God has given us. We cannot do that if we look at the men and women who come here as a conversation we are trying to end quickly and escape.”

“I think you’ll make an exception for Ms. Gunn,” Jason reaches for the book again and Nielsen drops it, almost carelessly, with a slam on the altar.

His face, outwardly, betrays nothing; it is only the subtle tick of his brow that reveals the extent of his irritation. “Especially Ms. Gunn.”

“Did you call me over to lecture me on proper behavior or are you waiting to give me some other job to do?” He can’t stand games. His teachers in grade school were a fan of them, _now we’re not angry with you, Jason but this is the third time you haven’t completed your homework and poor kids like you have a tendency to-_

Nielsen clears his throat. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. As it happens I have no time to speak with you about the diligence of patient ear and not viewing every conversation with outright hostile suspicion. Something that you cannot seem to trouble yourself to work past, perhaps if you had a more empathetic superior and someone who could put up with wounded excess pride you’d do better.” Nielsen hesitates. “Luckily for us, God works in mysterious and sometimes strange ways. With Reilly in the hospital, the chaplain at Blackgate needs a second to help run the church until we find a suitable replacement. I was going to go, but maybe it would be better for you to learn from someone more your own age.”

So, that was Nielsen’s solution to the troubling mistake that was Jason Todd, to send him packing off to be another person’s problem. How incredibly fortunate that Blackgate, the nearly forgotten mess that it was, sat a few miles out of county lines for anything the state of California, or the entire United States, wanted to be stored away and out of the public eye. Jason can only offer Nielsen a dry laugh.

“Ah, so when do I ship out then?”

“Don’t look at it that way,” Nielsen sighs. “This could be a very good experience and you won’t have to deal with hungry gossipers for at least a week until Reilly’s replacement comes. It might give you some peace and quiet, from all the protestors in town anyway.”

The protestors and news vans had arrived two weeks ago, when the man who police found standing over the corpses of the herd of cattle and his former employers at the ranch, Cyrus Gold, was denied his last stay of execution. They’d rented out the Gotham County bed and breakfast and half of free rooms above Pauli’s Diner, the only place in town that still puts up with their unwanted presence.

"When is it?" Jason takes the Bible and tucks it under his arm. “The execution I mean.”

"Soon, he needs to be read his last rights. The remaining Blackgate chaplain will see to that, you’ll carry out the same duties you do here in Blackgate’s prison. The only difference is you’ll be doing it in the presence of an armed guard.”

“You say that like it’s a matter of choosing two creams over one in a cup of coffee.”

“Chaplain Leone will appreciate your teasing infinitely more than the splinter that remains of my patience.” Nielsen turns away and rubs a hand through his hair. “I told them you’d be down there after the morning mass. I’d try to make it down there soon, Leone had his hands full even when Reilly was still there.”

“I’ll go,” Jason nods. At least at Blackgate, he won’t have to pretend to get along with the other men. Won’t have to watch his tongue the same way he does with the congregation of Gotham County under threat of Nielsen’s disapproving and icy glare.

"Thank you," Jason turns before Nielsen can wish him well, dips into the back room to gather his things.'                                                                                                                             

* * *

  
Outside the church, Jason drops his stiff-shoulders and breathes. It’s hot, almost uncomfortably so in the thick confines of his black cassock and tailored shirt in the 95-degree weather. The sky is bright and endless blue; a contrail of white jet streams the only thing that rips it apart. He digs his nails into the palms of his hand and shakes his head. The church is a boring building, square with a triangular roof made of glass with frosted patterns that cast beautiful shadows over the pews in the evening. The street in front of it is less so. The asphalt is cracked, torn up and littered with potholes. Glass from an accident only days ago lies in the street, glittering red and white in the sunlight.

The church is positioned at the edge of town off the main highway’s exit, Exit 6A, purposefully positioned for travelers who might have gone days without the sight of one. It’s about a mile out from the main circle of town, which centers around a grand park of green that costs more than the half the town made in a year to keep fresh and watered. Around it are where most of the retail shops, an open market and two of the three restaurants in town are placed. Normally, on a day like this, the retired natives of Gotham would be sitting on the picnic tables in the park, reading or chatting about the letters from their distant families. Now the park is home to a mixture of news vans, hauled up onto the grass—if there is any grass left underneath the torn-up space from the tires—and tents with bands of longhaired, a loose-dressed teenager. Some had even flown all the way here, to the middle of nowhere, from San Francisco or as far away as Manhattan. All on behalf of a man who hadn’t spoken to his own mother in over thirteen years.

“Jason Todd?”

There’s a man in Blackgate grays smoking on the bottom step, aviators perched on his head and bulky glasses down the ridge of his nose. It’s impossible not to recognize one of the friendliest men Gotham County had the privilege to know.

“Deputy Warden James Gordon,” Jason says. “Are we saying each other’s full names in greeting now?”

“Do I not get enough back talk from my oldest daughter that I need to get in on behalf of the Lord now?” Gordon offers him a smile and flicks his cigarette into the dirt. Crushes it with the toe of his boot as he stands up. “I take it Nielsen told you about the opening down in Blackgate?”

“No, the ambulance early this morning on my way to the church told me as much. Nielsen left out the part about getting an armed escort down to the prison. Afraid I’ll skip town and ship off to Mexico?” Gordon laughs and Jason doesn’t fight the smile across his lips. He was the first man Jason had met a week after he arrived in Gotham, nineteen years old and full of anger no man of the cloth should possess. Found Jason using his meager salary to spend on groceries and the occasional book from Stanley’s on East End Avenue and set him up with a room in the attic of the Gotham Grocery. Wasn’t much, the room perpetually stunk of rotten meat in the summer, but it was his something he could call his home. Gifted him with a rare early print version of _Pride and Prejudice_ for his twentieth birthday and his first beer—even if it was only just a sip—on his twenty-first. There aren’t a lot of men like Gordon anymore and he’s since learned to treasure the rare few he knows.

“I heard I’m sure that’s hardly helping the situation right now.”

“No, and that damned,” Gordon almost snaps. He closes his mouth and takes a deep breath in before he speaks again, considerably slower. Calmer. “That reporter from Los Angeles, Vicki Vale, certainly isn’t helping, yellow journalist she is. Most of us don’t think he deserves the chair. I don’t understand how his,” Gordon tightens his lips and spits, “ _idiot_ of a public defender thought that poor man was competent enough to stand trial. Cyrus Gold deserves psychiatric treatment, the man is obviously suffering from some sort of neurological damage.”

“Just so Dr. Arkham can set a new record with his icepick?” Jason says. “Blackgate might have been the best option for him. I can’t imagine what they’d do to Gold in a place like Arkham’s asylum.”

“His nephew described him as an outgoing, avid hiker who once nursed one of the dairy cows’ calves back to health. He was a first-time offender. Now he is mute, prone to violence, and looks like he’s constantly doped up on a cocktail of drugs. In my opinion, killing this man would make us no better than the worst inmates Blackgate houses for the rest of their sorry lives.”

Jason can’t contain his surprise. “Although Gold’s execution goes against everything I personally stand for, I certainly hope you haven’t let anyone else hear you talk like that. It makes your stance working for Blackgate hypocritical.” Not to mention nearly all of Gotham County wanted Gold dead at this point, knowing nothing about him other than his career as a murderer who had brought dozens upon dozens of busy-bodies to Gotham’s quiet streets. As depressing as it was most of the town, with the exception of Nielsen and now Gordon, wanted the man dead as soon as the state allowed.

“I know,” Gordon sighs. “It’s why I’ll be resigning from my duty as deputy warden in two weeks, after the execution and body transfer of Cyrus Gold. I cannot in good conscience support a justice system that operates the way Blackgate and the country does. I’m getting older and the weight of my decisions is heavier every day. It’s about time I retired anyway, don’t you think?”

“Without you, Blackgate will lose one of their few morally upstanding men,” which was tragically more accurate than Jason would personally like to admit. While many of the men in Gotham who worked there were the epitome of “good neighbors” once they put on that uniform it was like putting on a persona. An impassive mask that swam in the smug superiority that they were better than the men they had been hired to guard. While true, the way they took it out on the rest of the county—with rude and near absent manners when walking around the dirt roads of Gotham—made it impossible to truly, wholeheartedly like them.

“There will still be a few men there at least, aside from Father Leone, to make sure Blackgate stays morally upright so don’t worry about that. I actually came to give you and one of those men a ride to the prison.” Gordon says.

“The cop can’t afford his own car?” Jason wasn’t aware that police officers were suffering money trouble either.

“The sheriff’s department is drawn a little too tightly with the number of protestors, they needed the extra squad cars and Dick offered his.”

There were no buses that ran out to Blackgate aside from the sleek gray bus with barred windows and chain seats for prison transport. The only way one got to Blackgate was in the back of a squad car or an eight-mile hike through the desert to the dried up riverbed. Personally, Jason would have preferred the walk, but what little manners he learned from his father had him recoiling at the thought of denying Gordon.”

“Alright, where’s your second man?”

“In town, parked there too, in front of Pauli’s. I’d rather get as much sunshine and fresh air as I can before spending the rest of my shift locked in a cellblock with a group of men sweating out the heat.” Jason can taste the stench on his tongue.

“That’s probably for the best."

The walk into the main part of town takes less than ten minutes. They go in silence, enjoying what peace and quiet they can before they reach the raucous chaos in town. By the time they get to Pauli’s Diner Jason's coated in a light sheen of sweat and slipping into the building to stand in front of the cool air of the nearest fan. The diner is fuller than Jason’s seen it in the two years he’s lived in Gotham. The plastic-cushion booths are filled with young men with slicked-back hair, pea coats and silk scarves around their necks. The women in their ultra-feminine and dainty dresses embroidered with stitching of white flowers that hugged along the cinched belts on their waists circle around the jukebox as they shift through older songs by Neil Sedaka. The high opening to the song _Oh! Carol_ , rings throughout the diner almost in time with the melodic laughter of a dark-skinned woman with fiery red hair. Following close at her heels is a young man. Black-haired, blue-eyed handsome with the sun in his face from a dazzling smile, pulls the woman closer with an arm around her waist. Theatrically singing along with Sedaka’s lyrics, dancing out-of-step and time in the mixture of a tango-waltz to his partner’s obvious delight.

Jason’s so enchanted by the scene, carefree glee while the rest of the town tears itself apart, he misses the standard issue Blackgate officer cap spinning around the tip of his finger. Gordon, ever the on-duty cop, does not.

“Officer Grayson,” he says in a deep, corporal-like boom Jason’s only heard once before from a retired drill sergeant. “I hope we aren’t interrupting.”

Grayson handles the command a lot better than Jason would. Blue eyes snapping to attention, but losing none of their mirth, on Gordon. The smile turns bashful, just as wide as he offers his impromptu dancing partner one last spin that leaves her breathlessly laughing, collapsing against the bolted down chairs at the counter.

“You were quick,” his voice, Jason notes a little irritated, is also charmingly pleasant. “If I’d known I would have kept the car running.”

The way Grayson—Dick, Jason’s sure—quickly glances back towards the long, tanned legs of his beautiful companion say otherwise. Jason might wear a cross now, but he’s had enough experience to know a swinger when he sees one. Gordon, from the pinch of his eyebrows and the downturn of his mouth, looks about as unimpressed as Jason is. Then he sighs. Tension whooshing out of his shoulders and wrinkles smoothing out on the lines of his face.

“Jason, this is Richard Grayson, one of the new night shift officers at Blackgate. One of the upstanding,” Gordon levels a glare at Dick who has the decency to blush, “men I was telling you about. Dick this is Jason Todd, a preacher at Gotham County Church of Christ. He’ll be acting as temporary chaplain until we get a replacement.”

Dick holds out a hand with a smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Father Todd.”

Jason glances down at his hand and instead folds his hand behind his back. “Jason is fine.”

If Dick takes offense he doesn’t show it, the smile on his face certainly not drawing any tighter or upset by Jason’s refusal. The hand drops, forgotten and he turns around and leans over the counter. “Pauli, send me the bill later, okay? And don’t think I forgot about you,” he whispers something into the ear of his friend-date-romantic-interest and she watches Dick join their side, eyes glued to the downward curve of his back.

“Car’s out back,” Gordon gets the door for them. Dick sticks close to Jason’s side, beaming brighter than the noon-high rays and twice as intense.

“You’re pretty young for a preacher.”

If Jason had a dime every time someone told him he was too young to do anything, he’d be able to afford his own apartment in New York. The memory of his father’s vodka-sharp breath rises, unbidden in the recesses of his mind. The caress of his stubbled mouth and a too tight grip around his neck, _you are nothing, but a child who has convinced everyone else you are worth notice only from the excess of your arrogance_. Jason digs his nails into the meat of his hands that not even the threat of piercing the skin chases away the phantom fingers that slither along his back underneath the layers of his cassock and suit. Combating it the best he can with a sneer that Dick must read, from the sudden surprise and then quickly mumbled apology, as insult.

“It’s fine,” Jason says. “Let’s just get to work.”

The surge of nausea that comes at the sight of the slick black hood of the police cruiser is, hopefully, only due to the heat.

* * *

 Blackgate Penitentiary is a hunkering abomination of steel and brown concrete. The layout for the prison was so incredibly convoluted that, according to Gotham County legend, had been drafted by one of the architects who worked on a portion of the secluded house of the Winchester heiress in San Jose. The prison was composed of a myriad of multi-level interconnected buildings the same dirt-brown color the sand was. It nearly merged into the surrounding landscape only separated by its distinctive, navy blue roof. An eyesore in the nicest of terms. The parking lot was a distance from the facility itself, usually only obvious by a single solitary white van of it’s near constant, sole visitor. An old woman who checked in on her jailbird sweetheart daily. The parking lot for the police cruisers and facility personnel is around back, a sea of black and white.

This time, however, cars, new and old surround the prison. There’s one Jason pauses to stare at, a freshly washed and bought Aston Martin that sticks out among the desert sand, sleek and alien. Jason’s never seen more than two cars at a time on a rare day—for the very few times he’s walked out far enough to view Blackgate from the nearby mountainside—so the appearance of a literal army is so strangely peculiar that, had he not remembered Nielsen’s instructions from that morning, Jason would have assumed he’d stepped into an alternate reality.

He can see the mass of picketers with their signs surrounding the outer gate of the prison, clawing and tugging the chain link fence. There are more guards posted around the perimeter than normal. Jason decides instantly that he can’t stand the picketers. Gordon has to worm his way through them, overflowing onto the road. Half part politely, standing off to the side with a glare that could freeze the desert even on its hotter summer days. The other half rally against the car, shrieking and chanting, “Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!” Sickness bubbles along with a rising tide of dread that churns in Jason’s stomach. Staring straight ahead helps a little. At least that’s what he repeats in his head.

“Jesus Christ,” Dick says. The realization of Jason's career comes immediately after, obvious on his face with a bright flush of red. “Sorry, Jason.”

Jason makes an exception in this case.

The square car lot is protected by an iron fence, coated in barbed wire from the top, linking through the chains to the sand. A gate with two doors that opens inward at the front. There’s a laughable moment where Jason thinks about how ridiculous the amount of protection Blackgate possessed in the middle of proverbial nowhere. Perhaps the architect had an uncanny ability to see in the future, or at the very least predicted that a prison like Blackgate was doomed to be swarmed by angry men and women at some point in its terrible career. There’s one guard at the gate booth, so pink with sunburn, Jason can only assume it must feel like hell to move, to buzz them through the gate.

Gordon pulls along the side of the building, to the officer’s entrance. “Daniel should be waiting to greet you inside, Jason. You can help him to the door can’t you Dick?”

“Sure, sure,” Dick tilts back over the chairs with a wide smile. “You’re in capable hands.”

 _So long as there’s no long pair of legs to distract you,_ Jason thinks and keeps to himself. When they exit the car the chanting is even louder than before. Unintelligible, vitriolic screams drown out half the words, echoing off the dirt walls of the ancient basin Blackgate is nestled within. He schools his face into impassivity, a trick he’d learned from the early and dark days of his childhood. Dick, in comparison, lets his face drop, pity and guilt obvious in the downturned and muted blue of his eyes.

“Well let’s get you inside then.”

Inside Blackgate’s officer’s center is blessedly cool. It is exceptionally quiet compared to the mess on the other side of its steel doors, only the sounds of fans spinning full blast perched on the tops of desks. Dick fishes out his badge to the officer at the gate that is built around the door—a last-ditch protection to keep anyone inside from getting out—and nods to Jason.

“Get him a temporary pass, he’ll be replacing Reilly until Daniel finds another chaplain.”

“Which hopefully won’t take too long.”

Jason has never met Daniel Leone. He knew Reilly only from a few chance meetings when he first started at Gotham’s church and thought all the religious men that worked in the town were older, for that’d certainly been the case with Nielsen and Reilly. Daniel Leone is younger, still older than Jason by a ten-year gap, but his hair is still black without a hint of gray and only the smallest appearance of smile lines around his warm, brown eyes. He walks over to the gate, with a straight back and strong walk, unlike most of the older men in town.

“Jason,” Daniel smiles and offers his hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Normally, I’d just take over Reilly’s duties, but with the administrative mess involving Reilly’s accident I could use the extra pair of hands.”

“It’s nothing, you would have done the same for Nielsen or I if we were in the same position.”

“Of course, terrible thing about Reilly. He was such a good listener.” Jason bites his tongue to stop himself from adding, _apparently not_. “Still thank you. Walk with me? I’ll send you on your way in a moment, I just want to show you where my office is, just in case you have any questions and need to find me."

“Sure,” Jason lets Daniel walk past him. Nods a goodbye to Dick and trails after Daniel. “Nielsen didn’t go into the specifics of what you needed besides the execution of Cyrus.”

“Ah, yes, the execution, how could I forget.” Daniel sighs. “I’ll need you to hold the services today and starting on Wednesday just at night. I’ll be busy preparing with Cyrus for execution today and tomorrow, seeing him through his last few hours with prayer or if he wants to talk. Do you have a place to stay nearby?”

“I own a room above the Gotham Grocery.”

Daniel shakes his head. “Do you have a car?” Jason doesn’t answer and Daniel nods. “Right, well, I do, if you don’t mind coming in with me and waiting until I’m done at night I can drive you back into town. Not that I’m sure you won’t be up to your gills in paperwork during your week here, but there may be a few hours where you’re bored.”

Jason would rather not spend a second longer in the prison than he has too. The tight hallways already make it more than a little hard to breathe and he can’t imagine staying here for extended periods of time. Sitting alone with his dark and imaginative thoughts. “I’ll find something.

“You can take a look around the grounds. I know it doesn’t seem interesting, but the architecture on the interior is much” Daniel smiles at him, “more appealing than the outside. The library is large and full of all kinds of books. Besides you’ll be able to move around Blackgate a lot easier because of your,” Daniel considers him, “bodily presence so don’t hesitate to walk the grounds. The desert is beautiful at sunset.”

“You can say scary,” Jason clicks his tongue. “I’m well aware of how I look.”

“You aren’t scary,” Daniel says. “You’re just less likely to get unnecessary comments because of the seriousness of your personality. A lot of people respect a no-nonsense attitude.”

Jason only hums in response.

Despite Daniel’s praises, the inside of the prison is exceedingly bland the same way all prisons seem to inherently be. Dozens of white walkways with dark green stripes painted along the walls. The prison is loud too; the sounds of the C.O.s marching up and down the stairs along with the mixed-together sounds of conversation. It’s noon so most of the general population are in the cafeteria eating, Jason guesses that Cyrus is probably eating his third-to-last meal right now along with the remaining chunks of Reilly’s face. Jason wonders aloud what Cyrus asked for as a last meal.

“Nothing,” Daniel tells him as they wait patiently near the front office for one of the officers to the administrative wing to pat Jason down. “Hasn’t spoken a word since they arrested him and even if he did it’s not like anyone could hear him under that muzzle of his.”

“Has he really worn it since his arrest thirteen years ago? I thought it was a recent punishment for misbehavior.”

“He bit the head doctor on his first day, right on the arm. Tore out a chunk of flesh so big you could see the bone, or so the warden tells me. Retired the very next day."

“That’s terrible.”

“The way Cyrus bit him cut through several arteries or something like that blood everywhere. Made the doctor spasm and stab Cyrus right in the cheek with a scalpel. Worried himself sick over that. Cyrus’ attorneys hounded him for days, what little good it did, and continued after he’d moved. Poor man eventually hung himself in his home in northern Washington. Couldn’t deal with the guilt”

Jason grimaces. “I didn’t expect that sort of ending.”

“Neither did the doctor I think,” Daniel looked on, sad and soft. “Coroner said something about the body twitching when they cut him down. Another scandal to add to a pile of them. Poor man, God rest his soul.”

Jason nods, falling quiet as an officer finally comes over to pat him down. The procedure takes several minutes, dragging on when they feel the imprint of his rosary tucked underneath his cassock and make him disrobe partially to find it. Daniel waits patiently for the officers to finish their search before Jason signs himself in both are buzzed through the gates.

Daniel stops when they reach the three-sectioned hallway that leads to the doctors’ offices, the cellblocks, and the director offices. “Bolton’s office is at the end of the hallway, followed by Gordon’s than mine. Should you think of anything you need please come find me. I’d walk you to the church, but I have to meet with Cyrus in a few minutes. You think you can find your way to the church or should I show you?”

“I think I can find my way around,” Jason nods

“It’s on the other side of the medical wing. Just hurry through and don’t get in anyone’s way. Thank you again, Jason, for the help.” The two of them separate, Daniel to the cellblocks and Jason the doctor offices.

Blackgate Penitentiary on the inside is an odd patchwork of mazes so asinine the architect was probably trashed throughout half of the construction. The buildings themselves form a square around the entirely concrete recreational yard in the center. In order to get to the church Jason has to pass through the through cell block A after the hospital that houses most of the non-violent, but repeat offenders; thieves and major accomplices. The church is separated from the main layout, a small, one-level structure with a steeple roof and a large, wooden cross above the door. There is no way to reach the building by way of the outside without having to pass through the prison yard and despite what Daniel’s claimed about Jason’s “intimidating persona” he doubts a group of them would be scared enough to leave him alone. Most of the prisoners respect and even welcome the presence of a chaplain. Religion, he knows, offers an outlet of peace for many prisoners who serve life sentences with nothing else to do. Jason also knows that many of new inmates, who are trying to stupidly prove their worth to bigger, badder men sometimes like to start fights even if it costs them a week’s worth of privileges. Jason is a soft and attractive target for those men. Avoiding them is the best thing he can hope to do.

The trip through the doctors’ offices is easy. Most of the doctors keep to themselves, fussing over patients beaten to a bloody pulp by rival gang members. Jason can hear the sounds of groaning followed by whimpers through clenched teeth when he passes by the glass windows that peer into the so-called ‘waiting room.’ There are a few men lying on the blue beds with only a flimsy green sheet to separate them from one another. Most of the men lack shirts, their prison oranges pulled down to their waists, covered in a shimmery sheen of sweat. Panting heavily in their medicated sleep, fisting the blankets beneath their fingers with the pale fright of nightmares on their faces. He can catch the faint whiff of sick and fever-sweat that drifts out of the room, turning his already nerve-sensitive stomach and walks faster.

He’s nearly out of the wing when the doors at the end of the hallway burst open.

An inmate handcuffed to the bed, rolling and moaning on the stretcher, tears at the sheets while his eyes dart around in his head. An officer is pushing the bed while the doctor and nurse frantically pat his head with a wet cloth.

“Put him with the rest,” the doctor grabs the door and opens it up to the sick bay. “Get that temperature down _now_. He needs to have acetaminophen in his system immediately. Get him on ice too, anything to stop that fever.”

“Yes, doctor.” The nurse takes the doctor’s rag and presses them both against the lymph nodes beneath the inmate’s chin. “Get out of the way.”

Jason moves aside as the nurse brushes past him, nearly barreling Jason over as he runs down the hallway.

Now that the space is clear the remaining officer with the bed attempts to draw the belt loops attached to the bed across the inmate’s chest as he writhes. Jason ducks his head and rushes past them, slinking against the wall to keep as best he can out of the way. Jason can hear the inmate’s pained yowls echo down the hallway after him. Jason doesn’t realize he’s running until he nearly collides with another doctor emerging from one of the patient rooms.

Jason catches a glimpse in the room as he fumbles over apologies. A man lying deathly still on his cot, strapped down to the bed while the heart rate monitor beeps slowly, too slowly beside him. There is a ventilator shoved into his mouth and the steady pump of the mechanical lungs makes Jason’s skin turn to gooseflesh.

“It’s alright,” Jason snaps his gaze back to the doctor, his tag reads Elliot when the door closes. Tall, red-hair with the same up-right posture Jason’s learned to associate with well-to-do men that come from equally well-to-do families. “Not your fault to come at a time like this.”

“What’s going on?” Of course, there would be an outbreak of sickness now. Gotham County always had the worst kind of luck.

“A mess is what it is,” Elliot rubs his neck, sticking a clipboard under his arm. “You’d think with a warden like Lyle Bolton we wouldn’t have hygiene issues this bad. But Blackgate still is just a prison.”

“Should I be worried about this?” Jason tries his best to ignore the screams behind him.

Elliot shakes his head. “No, it’s contained. It happened to the P.I. crew in charge of cleaning out the cells in solitary a few days ago. Morons couldn’t be assed with proper clean up afterward and a few of them are developing a nasty case of septicemia.” Elliot pauses as Jason’s face narrows in confusion. “Blood poisoning.”

Jason balks. “How could that happen?”

“The infection itself or the multiple cases? The answer to both is a fight over who got to clean up all the shit and vomit Cyrus left in his cell. Pair open wounds with filthy cleaning equipment and human feces? We should’ve expected this, but with all those hippies clamoring outside the gates we’ve been too busy getting ready for Cyrus’ execution.”

“Am I in any danger of contracting what these men have?”

“Unless you plan on walking into their cells, barefoot with open wounds to plunge their toilets with your feet you aren’t in a lot of danger. Still, we've quarantined block A until their cells are cleaned, _properly_ this time. You’ll have to go through administration or the yard if you want to reach the church.”

Jason frowns. “Are you sure I can’t go through A?”

“Normally, I’d say yes but with my staff rushing in and out of A and medical trying to find out who was on the P.I. list you’d end up getting in the way. Sorry, if you’ll excuse me,” Elliot moves around him and towards the sick bay.

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose before he turns on his heels and walks all the way back through the medical building. By the time Jason reaches the gate that leads to the entrance to cell block B he’s already late for the first congregation of the day for prisoners. A fact that’s even further shoved in his face when the guard at the gate for B holds him back and tells him to wait because the inmates are being led out into the yard for free time. Jason doesn’t mind waiting, even if it does hurt is usually immaculate record with punctuality, because by the time the guard finally buzzes him in he doesn’t have to worry about waiting for an escort to lead him across the cell block now that they’re all empty.

Walking through the cell block when the gate opens makes Jason’s insides curl in a way he doesn’t really know what to blame it on. Maybe it’s the tiny space of the cells, cramped with fifty percent of the space being occupied by the toilet and bunk bed. Maybe it’s the way the cellblock stinks, the numerous metal toilets only contributing to the damp stink of human sweat and wet tile. It could be even the glimpses of each prisoner’s personal lives on display, child-like drawings that say “I miss you, daddy” with suns with smiley faces on them taped to the gray walls. Whatever the reason Jason keeps to himself, a stiff statue staring at his feet as he passes the several dozens of cells on all four levels of the building. An old memory, one that he thought he’d forced himself to forget comes to him. The sight of a dirty, six-by-six foot room and the scraping of bloody nails against a rough wall.

Jason stops, in the middle of the block shaky and clammy with sweat and breathes in through his mouth. Not his nose, lest he wants the smell to make the memory linger longer than it has any right too. _You’re not there, you’re not there, you’re not there_.

It takes an embarrassingly long time to set himself to rights and even then he’s light-headed and his mouth his tacky with spit from nearly losing the contents of his stomach. He reaches up, clutches the cross beneath his robes and squeezes hard enough to leave red indents in its wake. Then he walks.

                                                                                                                               

* * *

  
He makes it to Block C before he finally can breathe easier again—as well as he can inside Blackgate anyway. Jason’s positive that’s the reason someone calls out to him, barely keeping a lid on his quaking nerves.

“Hey, preacher, hold on a minute,” the officer that stops him is big with a thick New York accent and a smile that's about as greasy as his hair. “You’re not allowed through without an escort. You’ll have to wait for the on-duty officer to get check-in, which might take hours.”

 _And you can't do it because_? Jason pursues his lips “Seems to be all I’ve been doing this morning, officer. Waiting.”

“It’s actually _Lieutenant_ Bullock.” The officer smiles again and pulls a carton of cigarettes out from his pocket. Slips it between his lips and lights up. Blows a cloud of smoke Jason’s way while he stares ahead and holds his breath. “No hard feelings, I get it. Daniel couldn't tell you the difference between a C.O. and a lieutenant officer with the rush to replace Reilly after that freak ripped his face off. Can't wait until they ship Cyrus off to cremation.”

Jason’s not surprised that his first impression of the man rings true. “And why’s that?”

“I was here when they first brought him in ten years ago,” Bullock preens, puffing out his chest like a young rooster. “Been nothing but bad luck since. Of course, Cyrus would tear some poor sob’s face off and get all of A wing quarantined because of some damn blood infection. I m not a superstitious man or nothin’ but I won’t be surprised if things start going back to normal the moment they zap-fry his brain.”

“You shouldn’t speak ill of others, _officer_ , no matter what they may or may not have done.” Jason tilts his head back, regarding Bullock the same way he’d do a fly that landed too close to his food.

Bullock doesn’t seem to notice or care with the way he prattles on. “Of course you’d feel sorry for the bastard that bit your own man’s mouth off. A retarded cannibal gets his due, boo-hoo, I’ve seen good men get crucified for less.”

Jason can feel the hot, whip-crack snap of anger the moment he starts to open his mouth, ready to say something terribly impolite to take Bullock’s ego down several stories if just a peg.

“We have got to stop running into one another like this.” Dick walks over with his bright smile and brighter eyes. The sight of him is enough to get Jason to relax. “Dr. Elliot called ahead, if I’d known about the lock-down I would have risked Bolton’s wrath to escort you across.”

“You’re here now at least,” and thank God for that.

“Sorry, for the wait,” Dick leads him past the officer’s station and Bullock. “We were finishing up getting the new inmates to their cells. One was being a little difficult.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jason takes a slow breath. _In and out_.

The opening to cell block C disrupts the relatively peaceful silence Jason didn’t realize he’d been relying on. The chatter is obnoxiously loud, grating against his ears as prisoners bark and shout to one another across the levels. A few men, Jason doesn’t know who, run something metal against the out bars of their cell, the clanging echoing around the room with a near painful thrumming. Jason tries his best not to jolt at the sharp noises, following Dick through the block.

It takes about all of several seconds before the prisoners notice they have a visitor, the conversations quietly only momentarily as they pick him apart. Jason normally doesn’t mind crowds, he speaks in front of many often, but he struggles to resist the urge to curl in on himself as they unzip and pull him apart. Many of the men, when they’re satisfied with their assessment, go back to talking with their cellmates. A rare few call out after him.

“Hey, Father! Got some nice bathroom reading material for me?”

“Prissy fuck.”

“Nice dress, boy, show us your cunt."

There’s a low whistle that rings on a high note that ends with some quiet snickering. Jason rolls his eyes then.  _Pigs._

When they reach the end of the cellblock, a journey that feels an hour rather than the quick minute it took Dick holds out a hand to stop him. “I just have to check in with D before we pass through solitary. You okay with waiting here while I go?”

“It doesn’t matter,” it does but a few of the men nearby are watching with calculated interest. If Jason shows his fear now they’ll be sure to use it against him later.

“I’ll be just a second,” and just like that Jason is alone at the gate, his back turned to the rest of the prison. Thankfully, most of the sharks have grown bored with him and his lack of reaction, going back to shout obscenities at their neighbors. Jason allows himself to relax now that the attention's of him; focusing on what sermons he’ll hold today for the service. That, of course, doesn’t last long.

“Hey, Father, hey,” a voice, deep and smooth hums from his left. Jason doesn’t look.

“Oh come on don’t be like that,” the voice laughs. “Can’t a God-fearing man ask for some advice in an hour of need?”

Jason lets out a tight breath, closing his eyes for a moment before he turns his head towards the speaker. There is a man leaning against the bars in the cell pressed against the wall, cell C-12. He’s young, around Daniel’s if not a few years older, harsh cut of deep, red hair with a smile that has the Devil in it. There’s a tattoo on his right bicep, the head of an eagle with four stars and a banner that reads “Liberty.” A former military man maybe?

“That depends,” Jason says, not knowing why in the world he’s even humoring the inmate with conversation. “What kind of advice are you looking for?”

The inmate’s smile stretches a little wider as he tilts his head, trying to get a better look at Jason through the bars. “See I’m pretty new here, but I think I’d remember seeing someone like you waltzing around. Is every church full of men as handsome as you, because I’ll devote my entire life to your God if that’s true.”

Jason frowns. Solicitations and vulgar comments aren't new. Though they are few and far between some, with more than their fair share of charisma, try winning favors with peppered words and sweet compliments. The prison’s new jailhouse charmer isn’t quite as subtle as he thinks he is.

“Hm,” Jason turns around. “Perhaps if you paid more attention to the lessons you wouldn’t be here either.”

The inmate laughs. A deep, rolling sound that, in another scenario, would be pleasantly charming. It has the kind of ring to it that makes Jason think, “now there’s a man you can have a drink with.” Jason wonders if that’s how he lured in his victims or assured the tellers of the banks he could have robbed that everything was going to be okay. Right before he killed them. “See I knew you weren’t all Kumbaya and shit. Kitty’s got claws.”

Jason glares at him out of the corner of his eye. “There are better ways to spend your free hours. Repenting and confession would do you a lot of good.”

“Well now see don’t you know, pet?” The inmate rests his chin between the bars. “We’re all innocent in here.”

“Step away from the bars, Lucas.” Dick, not a moment too soon, snaps as he walks back from the guard post. Jason lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Dick glares at the prisoner, more exasperated than angry. “You just got gym privileges back and I don’t want to have to take them from you again.”

The inmate, Lucas, drops his hands from the bars and holds them up, taking a step away from them, a little playful smile on his face. The way his eyes drag up and down Dick’s form, focusing on the curve of his waist that, Jason knows, is exaggerated by the tight circle of his belt makes Jason blush. Dick only clicks his tongue, a mother unsure of how to punish her problem child. “Sure, sure, boss. Just making new friends is all.”

“I doubt it,” Dick sighs. “Come on, Jason."

There’s a low creak before the alarm sounds and the gate opens up for them. Dick walks inside the moment the gate is wide enough and Jason follows right after him. He does his best not to look like he’s nervous, especially with how Lucas tracks them well beyond they move out of sight.

They only get a few steps before Dick finds it important to talk again. “Sorry about that. I didn’t think anyone would bother you.”

“It’s fine,” Jason says.

“Should have known better with Lucas' cell right at the door.” Dick shakes his head. “Don’t worry about him, his bark is a hundred times worse than his bite.”

“I wasn’t worried, he’d have gotten bored quickly.” Jason pauses and then asks because he can’t help himself. “What’s his crime?”

“First-degree murder,” Dick says, “Victim was this guy, Henry Bendix, volunteer, charity worker, family man. DEA agent with an impressive record, really good at what he did. Close to retirement, you know how the story goes. Anyway, they find Henry in a motel room with multiple stab wounds while Lucas was propped up in the corner smoking a cigarette.”

Dick clears his throat, grimacing at the taste in his mouth. “And the entire motel is surrounded with SWAT guys because they got a 911 call earlier when the neighbors heard Henry screaming bloody murder and the door was locked. And the boys bust in and Lucas looks up with that damned smile of his and says, oh good morning gentlemen,” Dick attempts to mimic Lucas’ smooth drawl. “If I heard you knocking I would have unlocked the door.”

Jason’s frown deepens. “I’m sorry for the family he left behind.”

“Yeah,” Dick’s face tightens. “Yeah, me too.”

The pass-through solitary is thankfully silent. Majority of the inmates inside the cells are quiet, Jason might have guessed that the entire wing was devoid of anyone save for the few guards posted every few spaces. They pause when they walk by, what Jason assumes must be Cyrus cell, as a few men covered from head to toe in yellow suits Jason’s seen people wear for chemical clean ups walk out of the cell.

“All this for one man?” Jason says.

“Yeah, well Bolton’s not one to take chances.”

“I suppose he isn’t.”

Jason walks off the oddity of the sight in the last few minutes before they reach the door to the church. Dick leaves him at the door with a little smile and shake of his hand before Jason is left completely alone inside the small, what must have been a former woodshed before being remade into a church. He runs his hand along the rough edges of the roughly constructed pews before he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. _Better late than never._                                                                                                                               

* * *

  
The men don’t like him. Not surprising, Jason’s hardly Reilly or Daniel, the men they’ve grown accustomed to since their incarceration. They are more polite than Jason could ever hope to be with their placating smiles and saintly patience. Jason, in return, has a face that—according to teachers and other adults in his life—made you want to hit it. Pair that with his less than stellar attitude and he was prime material to become the unfortunate victim of a murder. Perhaps putting him in a building filled with men who wouldn’t hesitate to act on such violent, primitive urges wasn’t the best idea.

Mid-morning congregation passes by largely without incident. Majority of the inmates fall asleep with the select few devote men, obvious from the dark-stained tattoos of Mary or the crucifix on their chests and shoulders. Jason takes mostly from the sermon Reilly prepared and left in the church’s back office to lead them through the morning. He’ll plan his own for the rest of the week, something geared more towards learning how to talk about their problems in confession. Seeing as they can’t exactly go out and do volunteer work anymore, serving life or near life sentences. 

He’s so distracted in preparing for upcoming congregations he doesn’t hear his sudden and very much unwanted visitor until they’re halfway inside the church. Ghosting along the pews with disinterest, but brown-almost-maroon eyes carefully picking apart the details of Jason’s face.

“I heard we got a new preacher, but I didn’t believe Oswald when he said we were getting a toddler to lead everyone in prayer. Maybe I should’ve listened, you even out of your teens yet, boy?” Slicked-back, dark-as-night black hair and the same self-importance politicians carry themselves with. Makes the orange prison jumper look about as fashionable as zoot suit, all he’s missing is the lapel chain and fedora. Jason almost instantly prefers the company of the rag-tag gangsters in comparison to the church’s newest arrival. “What happened to Reilly?”

“There was an accident and he’s in the hospital.” Jason stares at the newcomer’s scar, an ugly jagged thing that runs from the top of his crooked nose to the missing chunk of lip around his mouth for a moment too long before he flicks his eyes back down to his book. The chapel is entirely empty, devoid of even one the on-duty guard. That makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, wary suspicion coiling tight in his stomach.

“Ah, right, sorry to hear about it,” the smile is hardly sympathetic.

“I don’t think I have to remind you that you aren’t allowed to be in here without the presence of an armed officer unless it’s an emergency. So if you came to waste my time, I’d suggest going back to the yard before I find someone to make you leave.” Jason tuts himself for the panic in his voice. Hopefully, the newcomer doesn’t notice it.

Maroon eyes narrow. “Watch your tone with me, boy. You’ll make more friends with better manners.”

There are few things that make Jason angrier than men who try an act like a stand-in father figure. Especially the ones that sound the same way Willis did on benders, who became so viciously mean that Jason still curls up when big men raise their voices. Age has only turned his fear into anger, and that makes him say things that tend to make things worse. Like this, “says the man who’s currently in Blackgate."

Big mistake. One second he’s standing at the altar, reading and the next his back is slamming into the wall hard enough it shakes the portrait of the crucified Christ right off. Jason glares down at the inmate holding him against the wall with only one hand, cool and vicious fury shining darkly in the depths of his dark eyes. “Now I know it won’t look great in the eyes of God to teach someone like you how to appropriately talk to a man in his own house,” he pauses. “But I’ve already got a seat down in Hell waiting for me and I think the big guy might appreciate the help with a smart ass like you.”

Jason catches the glint of a screwdriver, sharpened to a nasty point under the dim lights of the chapel in his other hand. “You’ll have years added to your sentence. ”

“I am serving life plus one, ” he says, low. The jagged scar around his nose and mouth widens, showing off most of his white teeth in a skeleton-grin. “So if I get busted for assault or homicide? No problem, that’s a parking ticket to me.”

“You lecturing the kid about good manners, Roman, would be about as useful as a pot lecturing a kettle.”

Lucas’ airy voice sighs from the main doors. He stands there, leaning against the decoratively carved archway inspecting the grime between his fingernails. “Do yourself a favor, Roman and put him down.”

Roman doesn’t, straightens up and glares at Lucas down the bridge of his nose with bemusement and irritation. “Later, when I’m stepping on your throat I want you to tell me why I would ever humor Nancy like you, Mr. Trent. Turn around and walk back outside.”

Lucas smiles that Devil smile again, pushing himself away from the door as he shrugs in faux bashfulness. “You don’t let him go and I call for Gordon, seeing as how he’s on duty making the rounds now. Have to keep all those protestors outside the gates in check.”

Jason feels and sees the Roman stiffen. Lucas must see it too, tongue darting out and playing with the tip of his canine. “I hear I have a lovely singin’ voice.”

Roman hesitates, testing the words in his mouth before he continues. “That doesn’t matter to me.”

“Aw, Roman,” Lucas heads over to the nearest pew and sits down on the side. “You wouldn't want to be transferred to solitary, would you? Actually, for assaulting a member of the clergy? They’ll go ahead and send you to Stryker’s Island where you can’t get all those nice perks Bullock gives you.”

Whether or not Roman’s scared of Lucas’ threat or bored—and Jason highly suspects it’s the latter—he drops Jason. He falls to the ground with a quiet groan and quickly rights himself to smooth out his robes. Takes a few steps away if only for the pretense of safe distance.

“You don’t know who you’re threatening, Lucas.” Roman straightens himself out, adjusting his collar the same way he’d do the tie of a hundred dollar suit. “If you did you’d be kissing my boots asking for mercy.

“A convicted Camorra member cut off from his own gang? I think I do.”

Roman leaves, not before giving Jason one final glare. Jason hadn’t really thought about the implication of Roman leaving, the two distracting each other from Jason, until he realizes with a heart stuttering pound that left only him and Lucas inside. Lucas seems to know that too if the way he leans forward on the pew, menacingly towards Jason.

“I don’t think I got your name.” He starts, casual, shit-eating grin still there like a permanent mark on his lips.

“I didn’t give it to you.”

Lucas struggles to force a frown on his face, trying to look upset but the amused glint in his eye hardly disappears. “That’s a shame, isn’t it? Want to fix it?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t have to be shy, Father, I won’t tell anyone if it’s something stupid. Trust me.”

Jason pursues his lips. “I’m not stupid.”

Lucas pauses, leaning back against the pew. “Most men who have more than one brain cell don’t purposefully poke a bear in the ass with a cattle prod either, but you taunted Roman without a second thought. That isn’t exactly smart.”

“I have an exceptional singing voice too, and if you don’t tell me what you want or leave I’ll call for the guards.” Though there’s only one exit and Jason would have to go through Lucas to get to it. If Jason ever personally met the man that constructed Blackgate he’d take his two front teeth.

“Touchy,” Lucas smiles. “I like that. Have it your way, busybody. I want a favor.”

Jason responds instantly, “no.”

Lucas hardly looks inconvenienced, staring at Jason like a particularly difficult bank vault to crack open. “You haven't even heard the favor yet.”

“I don’t need to.” Jason decides to ignore him, grabbing his bible from the floor. “I’m not doing anything for you.”

“The way I see it is I just saved your ass from one of the most sadistic men inside this hell and the least you could do was do me a little errand in return.” Lucas, full-grown military man that he is, whines. _Whines_.

Jason shakes his head and walks over to the podium at the front of the church. The afternoon crowd will be coming in an hour; he should be ready for them. That and it gives him just enough space to feel safe between him and Lucas. There’s a louder and more desperate part of his mind that recoils at the idea of doing _nothing_ in return no matter how unwanted Lucas’ help was. Jason closes his eyes and presses his palms against the lids of his eyes. The ghost of his father’s hand digging into the tense line of his shoulders. _You would depend on others to fight your battles for you without doing the same for them._

“I am only doing this once,” Jason says, voice rough. He swallows and wills away the phantom tightness around the hollow of his throat.

Lucas smiles and this time, it’s a sad, soft thing. He reaches into his prison jumper and pulls out a small, brown envelope. Worn from time and yellowed in the corners from sweat. It’s disgusting, but there written in careful cursive is an address the lettering is perfect. Beneath it is only three words, _To My Sun_.

“I want you to mail a letter for me.” And how in the world could Jason say no?

Still, Jason frowns. The request is simple enough that someone who wasn't that great at paying attention to the nuances of conversation would miss it. If Jason does the favor there's a high chance Lucas will ask him for another one, most likely as innocent as the first. Those little favors tend to build up after awhile from small, easy little things to bigger, riskier demands with the reluctance of saying no. After all, it's just another small favor, isn't it? Likewise, Jason doing favors for Lucas opens himself up to other inmates asking for the same kind of treatment lest they go to the guards and start telling them Jason's giving some inmate preferential treatment. As if Jason needed another mark on his record.

However, the heartfelt sentiment of a letter written to a loved one in a den of hate as bad as Blackgate holds Jason's curiosity in a vice grip. Jason rubs his thumb against the wrinkles of his palm and takes the letter. "I'll see what I can do."

Lucas relaxes in the pew, bringing his hands up behind his head. "Thank you. I think I like you better than Reilly already. Do us a favor though and watch your back, will you? Cyrus isn’t the only one to take advantage of a bleeding heart when it gets too close, eh?”

The mock worry in Lucas’ voice makes Jason’s stomach coil in disgust. He wonders, momentarily, what happened in the last few moments of Henry Bendix's happy life and how anyone would allow themselves to willingly be alone in a room with a man who knew manipulation as well as Lucas. Maybe Henry got caught up in his own arrogance and he thought he could outplay Lucas at his own game. Jason certainly wouldn't make the same mistake.


	2. The Great Pretender - The Platters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so late, so sorry.
> 
> Also unbeta'd, for now so beware of spelling errors and weird plot shit

On Tuesday, July 4th, 1964 at 8:05 pm in the evening Cyrus Gold is executed for three counts of first-degree murder. Jason is in the middle of confession when it happens.

The confession booth is a sweltering hot box made from scrap wood with splinters that catch on the inmates' uniforms as they walk in and out. The scent of sawdust tickles Jason's nose and, if he could, he would breathe through his mouth if his dry throat didn't sting so much. The wall between Jason and the inmates is a stained, white bed sheet that's been stapled to a wooden frame. Jason would be worried about getting shanked through the cloth after the warm welcome he received from Roman—thank you, nightmare man--but the heavy atmosphere of the execution seems to nullify even the most vicious of Blackgate's residents. This tends to happen around the week leading up to the executions. He’s seen it happen before, first hand. Humans aware of their own impending mortality try and tie up whatever loose ends they can before God judges them. Jason doesn't judge them—well he does, but within the safety of his own mind where no one can hear him--for their crimes, simply repeating the phrase "you are forgiven," until his voice cracks. He's in the middle of leaving the booth when it happens.

There is a static crackle followed by a low thrumming intensity. A small light, screwed into the roof above the altar bursts, raining down bits of glimmering shards over the men. The inmate in confession besides him, Warren White, a nervous man with a persistent tick, cries out and hides behind Jason's form. There is silence then the prison alarm blares once, an exceptionally loud and abrupt noise shrieking over the intercom. Warren goes silent before letting out a high whine that turns into a noisy blubber. He'd been in the spilling his guts, starting with a particularly heinous crime he committed at the age of five when he stole his grandmother's blueberry scone. Sobbing pathetically on the other side of the sheet. Jason had been planning to get him a box of tissues so he'd stop using the divider to wipe his nose. What good that will do now.

Once the bell rings for lock-up Warren is near inconsolable. Clinging and weeping into the cincture around Jason's cassock, deaf to Jason's prompting and reassurances. There's still at least a dozen men sitting in the church pews waiting with dark, purple rings around haggard eyes, but Jason is done. Reilly or Leone would make an exception and wait until everyone had been seen. Jason is neither of them. At the end of his emotional rope so to speak.

"That's enough for today," Jason nods to the guard waiting in the back of the room. The men don't fight the order but hang their heads, stone-faced and stoic as they get up from the pews and line up. Jason eases Warren back to his feet with gentle, but firm prompting. "Warren, it's time to go back to your cell."

There's a sniffle as Warren wipes the snot onto his sleeve and picks himself up onto his feet. When he's done, still red-eyed and tear-stained, he takes Jason's hand and kisses it.

"Bless you, Father," Warren mumbles, choking back a fresh wave of tears. He turns away and when Jason sees the back of his tan uniform he wipes his knuckles off on the back of his robe. Tries not to think too hard about whether that makes him a bad preacher or person.

Jason doesn't bother waiting for a guard to escort him through Block A, now that the quarantine’s been lifted. The night staff isn’t as tight about the rules as day crew is. They buzz him through with just a wave of his pass. The inmates are quiet too; shrouded in what little darkness the cells have from the old, yellow lights. Jason knows better than to assume they're mourning Cyrus, a man none of them truly knew. They're hiding from their own fates. None of these inmates are on death row, but the threat of the electric chair hangs over the prison like the inside of a plastic bag. Jason will be glad to put as much distance between himself and Blackgate for the rest of the night. He shrugs off their troubled glances and the glares as easily as he does in church. There is little salvation he can provide for them now in the shadow of carrying out the death sentence of a sick man. Cruelty in a world of vicious irony is as commonplace as traffic and smog are to humanity.

The hospital is no longer bustling with doctors and nurses fretting over the patients with sepsis. The walkways are empty, bathing the off-white linoleum under the twinkling of the old fluorescent bulbs. Most of the blinds in the patient room windows have been pulled shut, but a few of the doors are cracked open for fresh air. The methodical, slow beeping of the heart rate monitors is the only thing that echoes down the hospital hallways. The doctors, no doubt, are busy overseeing the execution and preparing the body for the morgue.

A low, hissing noise sputters out of one of the doors Jason approaches, a voice gargling on drool. Hello, death. Adrenaline shoots up his spine in ice-cold tendrils that make his heart clench up in surprise. Curiosity killed the cat, but apparently being stupid and interested in things that he shouldn’t be is Jason’s middle name. Because there is no reason for him to pause and leans back, getting a peek through the door. But he does it because interest over the mysterious illness that plagued the men in Block A has been keeping Jason up at night. When, of course, it wasn’t Roman’s scarred smile.

It's the patient Jason saw the day before the one Dr. Elliot was tending to. His skin, once a vibrant rosy tan is a muted gray that flakes around ashen lips. His eyes are sunken into his skull and the hollows of his cheeks make the bones in face protruded jaggedly. Jason would assume him dead if it weren't for the faint rise and fall of his chest and the steady beep of the heart rate monitor.

Another groan slips past the man's lips just as pitiful as the one from a moment before. He turns away from the door and mumbles a quick prayer that he might find relief from pain in death. Little good that will do in the long run. Dead is dead is dead. Jason hurries down the rest of ward, eyes solely focused on the image of the exit door. Ignoring the clinging image of the dying man that tears at his robes as stubbornly as the morning chill.

When Jason finally makes it to the front office through processing majority of the day guards are gone. The number of people Daniel and Jason had to wade through had double in last twenty-four hours before Cyrus' death. Dick's fiery dance partner from the diner was there, standing on top of a retired army Jeep, leading the chanting at the surrounding prison gate. Jason wonders if she gave any thought towards Dick's chosen profession or if she was willing to ignore that undeniable fact just for a chance of getting cozy with a handsome man. Honestly, if Jason met anyone as stupidly beautiful as Dick Grayson he might reconsider the whole celibacy part of being a priest. Maybe she thought he held sway over whether he could call in a stay of execution. Or maybe Dick plays the tragic Romeo to her virtuous Juliet. Whatever the case, she dumped one of Pauli's classic milkshakes down the front of Daniel's cassock on the way to the entrance. Whatever impression Jason made the day before was forgotten in a haze of justifiable and sympathetic rage.

The officer at the front desk, a younger man with rich, red hair, is in the middle of chatting with another man when Jason approaches the gate. They ignore him easily. Which would normally infuriate him, but they’re talking about Cyrus. Something Jason is getting a little too absorbed in.

"It's going to be a field day tomorrow with the journalist dropping by tomorrow. Everyone already feels bad for him, hell if I know why and with that electrical fire? We'll be lucky if half the staff isn't let go by the end of the month."

"Elliot had Lester swamped all day making sure the hospital room generator would still be functional with all the power he had to reroute to the chair. Hardly surprising he was a little out of it when he ran through the safety check." The other officer is older, early fifties and stout who looks more accustomed to deskwork than guarding. Jason feels bad for his wife unless the promise ring on that finger stands for to ugly to marry. As far as Jason can tell, the least unattractive thing about the man might be his nose hairs.

"Then he should've asked for someone else to check his work. Hell, he could have asked for that radio jockey broad from Cisco that's been parked out front for help. Jesus, and don't get me started on Bullock's reaction when Cyrus had a seizure." The young officer, whose badge reads Arnot colors various shades of green from pascal to emerald. "No idea what Bolton was thinking putting someone that trigger-happy in the execution room."

"Unorthodox way to get the job done, but at least someone put Cyrus out of his misery."

Arnot visibly cringes. "Compassion isn't your best trait is it, Soames?"

Jason clears his throat. The two officers glance over; Arnot flushes when he sees Jason waiting beside the gate. The other straightens out, cool glare half-visible behind the shine on his glasses. Arnot stands up quickly and rifles around the papers on his desk. "One second, Todd, I'll buzz you out."

"No hurry," Jason doesn't bother to hide his annoyance. "Has Daniel already left?"

"No," Arnot, Mac Jason remembers, presses the button that opens the gate. A loud buzz rings through the empty office as gate slides open. "He's giving Cyrus his last respects."

Jason nods. "Sounds like Cyrus will need as much after today."

Mac's cheeks color as bright as his hair. Dudley Soames, the older ex-detective Jason realizes steps in to save Mac from the hole he's about to dig himself. "An unfortunate accident. Blackgate prides itself on order and proper inmate treatment. What happened today was a stain on that reputation."

"What happened?" Jason asks, innocent enough that Mac coughs, shaking his head when the both of them glance over.

"Nothing to worry about."

"It doesn't matter," Soames sighs, ignoring Mac's startled glance. "He'll probably see it on the news tonight. I'm sure you saw the power surge today anyway half the lights in block B blew out. For a man whose sole focus at this prison is electrical engineering, Lester doesn't know a damn about proper procedure. Didn't even make it halfway through the first shock before Cyrus was thrashing around in his chair. He broke the wrist restraints. They all called Elliot up to give him a relaxant so they could try again later but Cyrus got free somehow. Pretty fucking tough for being nothing more than a mute vegetable that was only force-fed soups and oatmeal in solitary. Anyway, when they fired up old sparky again Cyrus nearly flew out of the chair and Bullock opened fire. He didn't get up after that, least we can thank his callous hands for that-"

"Enough, Soames."

Gordon’s weary yet familiar face is a welcomed sight. He lets out a light and pitying breath. "It's over and done with and that will be the end of that. The next time I catch anyone on duty talking about it I’ll have your badge. Come on, Jason, I'll take you home."

Jason’s never thought he’d jump at a chance to go with the word home.

Outside the sun has nearly disappeared beyond the vast stretch of sandy sea that is the Mojave Desert. The rocky boulders that rise-up out of the sand in the distance are a mix of oil paint reds and purples. Jason takes a moment to watch the sky fade from a rich orange into a deeper purple. It will be dark by the time they reach Gotham, pitch black and dotted with dozens of stars. Something Jason's old haunts in Vinegar Hill, with all the lights from Times Square and the glittering windows of skyscrapers, did not. Without the aid of streetlamps or a map, people had a habit of falling into abandoned and poorly concealed mine shafts from unlucky prospectors who made them decades ago. Likewise, the terrain around, though mostly flat, easily concealed things like sudden drops or rises that could, at the very least, badly twist an ankle--one hiker had the misfortune of getting his leg caught and being found weeks later as a gourmet meal for coyotes. And that was excluding the desert fauna that liked to stroll the landscape without the furious rays of the sun beating down on them. Without the moon, Jason would be lucky to see his hand in front of his face. So, walking? Not a great idea unless you had your own personal floodlight.

Outside of the prison gates, the parking lot lies abandoned of protesters. Signs litter the ground, cardboard sheets with large block letters,"Execution is not the solution." Jason steps around them in a rush to get to Gordon's car, sitting alone in the middle of the tire-marked sand. Tucked hurriedly into the windshield wipers is a pamphlet that argues the cost of killing versus life sentence care. Gordon sighs and takes it off the window, tucking into the pocket of his coat.

"I think we both need a drink or two."

That is the best news Jason's heard all day.

* * *

 Across the lot from Pauli's is the Stacked Deck bar. It's a filthy run-down pool hall and it's the only place in Gotham that's had more fights than people drinking beers. There is always a cop on duty inside if only to lower the few 911 calls that were made daily. The owner, a retired high school teacher with the personality of an entire fraternity house, hasn't bothered updating the furniture and makes most of the tables and chairs out of scrap wood. Hard not see reason in the line of thinking, though, considering how often chairs, tables, pool cues, glasses, a painting of depressed clown are broken. Normally, men and women start their night at Pauli's and filter out, well on their way to drunk when it closes in the early evening before stumbling through the Deck's doors. By that time whatever arguments had started in Pauli's over dinner end in the Deck. Harder liquor fueling the fire better than the cheap, crap beer Pauli serves. With the influx of arrivals protesting Cyrus' execution, the bitter Gotham natives had run blisteringly hot. The inside of the Deck looks worse than the dirtiest alleyways Jason played in as a kid. Home, sweet home. The television above the bar drones on beneath the hubbub of conversation. Interrupted every now and again with a sudden burst of black and white static."

 _"Tropical storm-bzzzt-is expected to hit the coast of Baja California in Ensenada and Tijuana early tomorrow morning. It has already flooded-bzzzt bzzzt-and Cabo San Lucas with more than four times the annual amount of rainfall. It's likely to lose power by the time it makes it to San Diego, but flash flood warnings will remain in effect for the following counties; San Diego, Los Angeles, Orange, San Bernardino-bzzt-Gotham-_ "

"Here you go," Gordon sets down a Coke-bottle-turned-beer-bottle in front of Jason. Condensation is already gathering on the cool, decorative glass around the company logo. Jason hasn't had a lick of alcohol since his twenty-first birthday--ignoring the watered down grape juice Nielsen calls wine--and the first taste of it makes his nose scrunch up something awful, but Jason will take anything to ease the tension that's been making a home in his neck and shoulders over the last twenty-four hours. Gordon is already halfway to finished before he sets his own down, slipping off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose with a tired sigh.

"Easy there, sheriff," Jason drawls with a light smile. "You might make people worry if they catch you going through drinks like they're water."

"Doubt anyone would blame me, especially with what's happened," he shakes his head and pushes his sweat-slick hair back. "Must be worse for you, coming in right at the end of it. At least we were all ready for it, saw it building over the last couple months when Cyrus' first supporters wandered out here. They know your face now, probably your name. I wouldn't answer whatever mail you get for the next couple weeks. Burn it if you want, it won't be anything kind."

Now a normal preacher would answer that with a tilt of their head. Acknowledgment, maybe a few words about reading the letters of whoever wanted to debate with him about the morality of serving in a place that effectively allowed none of it. Reilly, from his what he could gather in his office, had a few fans like that. Piles of letters stacked high on his desk from some Christian woman in Missoula about how burning in Hell was for criminals, unrepentant sinners, but not prison chaplains. Your normal Tuesday. None would have the same reaction Jason has. Which is to excuse himself from Gordon with a polite smile. Then, on suddenly limp feet, he hurries into the bathroom where he vomits the small sip of his beer--that tasted better coming up than going down--and the remains of his dinner from hours ago. No ordinary preacher would cling, white-knuckled to the edge of the single stall toilet and heave until there was nothing left in his stomach to expel.

How could he have been so stupid? Cyrus Gold's case had been in the center of the national spotlight for months now. Reporters from as far off as New Orleans and Reno and Baltimore had either rented out of the few motels or camped in their news vans for weeks. Accepting the position on behalf of Reilly had been expected of him. Might have liked it for the peace and quiet had it not shoved him in a tiny corner of a prison that might as well been a construction model for a torture pit in Hell. People had seen him. Angry people, filled with that vindictive righteousness that wouldn't leave well enough alone until they had evened the losses. They would dig, dig deep enough that they'd find out about-

Jason vomits into the toilet again, nothing more than a mouthful of warm spit. Rubs his mouth with the back of his clammy hand and stands up on his feet. Anger is an easy replacement for anxious paranoia. Jason has called upon it many times before. Flushing the toilet and washing his mouth out with a little more force than necessary brings a serene calmness to his quaking nerves but it does little to fight against the looming past dread that curls around his neck and wrists in iron-tight clamps. He splashes a bit of cool water on his face to bring feeling back into his numb lips.

Stop it. It's over no one knows anything. Jason rubs a hand over his chin, catching on thick stubble hairs as he looks over his reflection. He has his mother's face, a sharp jawline that softens at his chin with his father's stern forehead. His genes are the only things he carries of his parents and if he could he would have surgery to fix that. Jason sighs and pushes a hand through his wet curls. For being a pastor you aren't that great at forgiveness, are you?

Jason leaves the ghosts behind the glass of the mirror and exits the bathroom to rejoin Gordon.

He's gotten more company in the time Jason's been gone. Pretty-boy Dick Grayson's there, lighting up the room with a bright smile and brighter laugh. Half of the Deck patrons hardened rail yard men who barely manage a word to their wives let alone a stranger, listen with rapt attention and Jason frowns before he can help himself. All he receives are snarls and glares while Dick, despite his occupation and Blackgate badge displayed proudly on his chest, gets smiles. It would be better for everyone if he just went home.

"There you are," Dick spots him and waves him over. For a man that's as easily distracted by a pair of women's legs he certainly has the eyes of a hawk. "I thought Gordon was pulling my leg when he said you were here. Thought you'd burst into flames walking into a shithole like this."

"It's places like this I'm needed most," Jason shoots back. "How is a doctor supposed to treat a festering wound if he doesn't scrub it clean first?"

Jason halfway expects the smile to freeze off Dick's face. It grows warmer and he laughs louder. "I think Nielsen has some competition in the wise-cracking department."

"Dick," Gordon shakes his head. "Leave him alone. Jason, come here we weren't finished talking."

Sure, but he's had enough socialization for the day, prisoners and all. Another hour in the company of Dick's Hollywood white smile and men who regularly give him the stink eye would eliminate the tiny splinter that remained of his patience. "Thank you, but I need to get home. Today was tiring and I have a lot of work I need to do for the remainder of the week."

“You aren’t even going to stay for the fireworks?” Dick says, disappointed. It’s hard to say no to that smile, really, Dick is too pretty for his own good.

“I’m going home.”

He tries to pay for the beer he hardly touched and Gordon shoos him off. "I'll take care of it."

So he leaves, ignoring the sounds of Dick's company laughing along to whatever joke he tells as he wanders out of the bar and into the warm, night air.

* * *

The clock reads ten pm when he makes it home.

His apartment is nothing more than a tiny makeshift studio up creaky, carpeted floors that look a disgusting oily brown instead if the original pale green. It stinks like old food that's baked in the sun too long, but you know what they say. Beggars can't be choosers.

The door to his apartment, nearly consumed with rust, waits at the top of the stairs. Inside his apartment used to be a single space until the Browns, the owners of the store installed two fake walls to section off the bathroom from the rest of the apartment. Jason doesn't spend a large amount of his time here, so the apartment is mostly bare. Break-ins by traveling drug addicts are common and after losing a treasured copy of The Last Man Jason's since learned his lesson. He keeps nothing valuable insight but stores them under floorboards.

There's a small cot in the back of the room with whiny metal springs on top of what was once a beautifully ornate Persian rug. One flooded bathroom later, the stains are still a muddy brown against the ruby red. There's a kitchenette along the left wall of the room with 50's era appliances and cabinetry. Despite their ages, the refrigerator, toaster, and stove all work exceptionally well. The fridge, however, is prone to malfunctions from electrical outages and the baking afternoon heat.

The bookcase, hand built by scraps of wood from Guy's destroyed furniture, is the only thing he uses his extra expenses for. It's lined with books of various sizes, shapes, genres, and colors ranging from the dark, rough leather of a college encyclopedia someone left behind in Pauli's to the vivid deep blues and greens of a teenager's mysterious novel. It's enough to make the apartment actually feel like home rather than just a space Jason--or anyone else--occupies.

Jason locks the door behind him and tugs off his dirt covered work shoes. His cassock comes off next stinking of sweat and dirt along with his white clerical collar. Jason dumps the cassock into the hamper in the bathroom and the collar back in its case. His shirt, pants, and socks follow suit. Lito showers under lukewarm water, a pleasant change from the blistering heat all afternoon, scrubbing viciously under his armpits. When his hair feels clean and he smells faintly of orange soap he steps out and dries off.

He redresses in a soft cotton shirt and jeans, one of the few pairs of normal clothes that he owns. He makes himself a small dinner, watery oatmeal with a spoonful of pure cinnamon to help the mush go down and resolves to spend the rest of his night, awake, staring at the patched holes on his ceiling where the water pipe busted and bled through the plaster when he catches sight of the sweat-stained letter lying on the nightstand. Then he remembers the stupid favor he made to Lucas in the middle of well, mind-bending terror considering Roman wasn't exactly the friendliest welcoming committee that Blackgate had to offer.

So here's the thing. He hadn't decided on whether he should have said yes to hand deliver a letter on behalf of a man that, by all accounts, is kind of scummy. Well, then again there's scummy and there's murdering a father figure for what probably was a completely dumb reason. Or going and getting caught red-handed. Now, Jason had planned on poking around the record room to find out whether or not Lucas was a rude dickwad, that way he wouldn't feel too terrible about rejecting his request with a simple "no fucking sir" but considering the protestors and the sudden influx of men who wanted to confess the sins they’d done in third-fucking-grade--thank you Edward Nygma for the lovely thought of holding a neighbor's young puppy hostage unless they could answer the stupidest riddle ever conceived by a human man--he hasn't exactly had a lot of spare time on his hands to go poking around hundreds and hundreds of court transcriptions.

That being said, the innocence of sending a letter to a loved one--and it could only be a loved one with the care Lucas had curved every letter on the affectionate title of "My Sun"--makes him reach for the envelope on the nightstand. It's as rough under his fingers as it was before, soft wrinkles from the paper drying wet curving under the tips of his fingers. The address reads; First Sergeant Andrew Pulaski, Clark Air Base, Philippines. Jason thinks about Lucas' eagle tattoo with the dark bold ink spelling out Liberty. He opens the letter.

_Hey,_

_Sorry for the delay, the warden’s an asshole, kept letters from going out. You know the drill. Misbehaved, privileges taken, that’s how I swing, baby._

_With my luck, you're probably still ticked off something awful at me, not that I blame you, you told me not to do it and I did it anyway. I've never been that great at holding in my anger without you around. Surprised, I didn't manage to do worse, but it did the job. Locked away from you, forever and your anger. I don't blame you for never writing but a letter every now and then would be nice. Just so I don't spend the rest of life wondering whether or not you finally died on behalf of Uncle Sam. That's the worst of it. Not the cramped space here or the pigs or the dropouts, it's sitting alone with my thoughts all day wondering if you're still keeping the skies safe or permanently grounded. At least knowing if you were dead or not would get rid of these shakes._

_I'm not sorry about when I did. Given the chance, I'd do it again. Even if it means you'd hate me for the rest of my life. I'd do it. If that upsets you, sugar-pie, I'm sorry if only for you. Never his. You're probably tired of all these letters. Wonder if your squadron feels sorry for you. A constant stream of letters from some "crazy dame" in California, that's gotta be rough. They're probably asking you for a picture. Next time I'll send you a really nice picture of Rita Hayworth's legs. There's someone in here that's got just the picture. Someone for you to show off with pride instead of embarrassment and guilt. That's the worst thing I've done to you. Making you love me._

_Please write me back, A, I'm dying in here._  
_M_

Wow. That was a bad idea. He seals the letter back carefully and forces the sudden surge of both disgust at himself for reading such a personal letter and hurt for Lucas away before it overwhelms him. It would have been less invasive if he had sat in the cell with Lucas and helped him pick out the right words. Jason has always been extremely protective of his privacy. Once a boy on the street he’d grown up with asked him why he couldn't play basketball past noon. Now the proper answer would have been "I just can't" or "mind your own beeswax, Clyde." Jason, on the other hand, punched him in the face and ran away. Never to speak to the boy or play basketball again. Jason's modus operandi. React violently without thought and then to lock himself away until the coast was clear again. He doesn't know how Lucas would feel about having his, extremely personal and possible illegal letter read against his wishes. Jason knows things can go from bad to worse for men like Lucas who felt for men what others do for women in a place as dangerously violent as Blackgate. It at least solves his indecision on whether or not to send the letter. It's the least he can do.

That’s how he spends his 4th of July. Listening to the muffled boom of fireworks with another man’s soul in the paper on his chest.

The post office is a five-minute walk down Main Street near the old gas station. Jason leaves early in the morning before the sun's up and Daniel comes around to drive him to Blackgate. It's blessedly cool, the sky a dark gray with the scent of oncoming rain. Jason likes rain. The smell and the sound of it. He’d watch it rain for hours in Vinegar Hill. Hasn’t had the chance yet in California, land of the almost permanently blue sky. It's nice or would be without the streets looking like they had a late-night visitor from a tornado. The great park in the center of town is vacant, abandoned of tents and news vans with trashed littered around the asphalt road and dirt. Gotham looks worse for wear in a post-Cyrus execution world. The town will recover as it always does, but Jason doubts the men and women who came will be gone for long. Blackgate has a long line of inmates waiting their turn on death row. Some with more humanity than Cyrus. Crossing his fingers that next time no one loses their face.

There are only a few people up so early in the morning. Guy is out in front of Pauli's, sandbags over his huge shoulders as he drops them in a small, semi-circle around the main entrance to the bar. The man looks half dead, dark bags underneath his eyes, half-asleep on the concrete wall. Jason gives a salute as he passes by and Guy blearily blinks at him before shoving off the wall with a proud middle finger. Guy's probably one of the few assholes in town that Jason can actually stand. Never change Gardner.

The post office is a small building on the edge of the main street run by an older woman named Harriet. Jason's never had the joy of meeting her in person, but according to Nielsen, she was quote "an old bird that had a habit of making her business everyone else's" unquote. She also had a long-running competition with Ms. Gunn for Gotham's most annoying busybody. So, a great way to start the morning off on the right foot. She's behind stacks of papers fumbling around when Jason walks inside.

"I'll just be a minute," she calls out. Pushes up her round glasses as she drops letters into assorted boxes beneath her desks. "I'm a little behind on the sorting, Mr. Krill I'll have your deliveries for this morning in a second."

"Ms. Cooper," Jason walks up to the desk. "Sorry to bother you, I just had a letter to drop off."

She looks, squinting through her glasses hard enough it hides her eyes behind folds of wrinkles before she laughs. "Oh look at you, Jason, I didn't see you there. You're about as handsome as Fay says, just what Gotham needs."

"Thank you," though he could go a day without a comment on his looks--since well, it's not appropriate for his job description. Wet dreamer bringer to old grannies, now that's certainly not what he expected when he became a preacher. "You look busy."

"Oh, yes," she sighs. "All these letters going out to the California Senate today. What good that'll do, the man's dead there's nothing left to fight for anymore."

"I'm sure they have their reasons," Jason taps the letter on the desk. Better to not get off track now or he'll spend the whole morning gossiping. "I need a stamp."

"Oh, of course, right," she pushes around numerous stacks of letters with various samples of handwriting from elegant cursive to barely legible chicken scratch. She finds the sheet with stamps with a delighted shriek and offers it to Jason with a smile. "Here you are, dear. Go ahead and take one."

"Thank you," he puts the stamp on the letter and holds it out to Harriet. She takes it with a smile then reads the address. The smile falls from her face faster than a child when denied candy.

“Is there something wrong?” Jason asks.

"Oh, well,” she says, “you're sending his letter.” Sad, a little irritated and drops it straight into the trash. That is certainly a reaction.

"Hey," now Jason knows that Lucas isn't exactly the nicest person around but really? That is borderline overkill. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I thought I told them to stop sending his letters out ages ago. Not my fault the poor man can't let go, I had to put my foot down somehow."

"You can't decide whether to send someone's letters or not," Jason gapes and looks down in the trash. He gets down on his knees and picks up Lucas' letter, holding it away from Harriet's disapproving glance, shielding it beneath the confines of his arms. "Blackgate inmates can send their letters out." Look at him, day three and he’s already a speaker for the prison. Things Jason thought he’d never do.

"Oh, honey," she says with sad, sad pity. That doesn’t bode well for anyone really. Pity is hardly, if ever, good.

She walks away from her desk and disappears into the backroom of the post office. Jason stands there, blinking. Two parts confused and one part angry on Lucas' behalf, no matter how he should feel about it. Opens his mouth to argue when Harriet returns with a small basket labeled Blackgate mail.

Within the basket are dozens upon dozens of letters. All with the same careful handwriting that curves gracefully with the word sun. Stamped across that in big, bright red are the letters KIA.

"Bolton's put a hold on the letters going in and out of Blackgate over the last few months. So I've been saving them here and well. I can only imagine what will happen when he gets them all, the poor dear."

It's pathetic really, that Jason should feel so terribly bad over the life of a man he didn't know. And the pain for Lucas, who is no doubt wished worse by the family of the man he murdered. But it feels so awful, staring down at the numerous, intimate letters pleading for just a word from his partner to return with the terrible red lettering. There would be no letter to Lucas telling him how it happened, only that it did and that somewhere miles away this man was nothing more than a pile of bones underneath a headstone. He tucks the unsent letter back into the folds of his cassock and nods.

"Thank you, I'll let you get back to work."

Appropriately it begins to rain when Jason walks out of the office. He stares up at the sky and wonders when everything in his life became so complicated.

* * *

 Bad news, Jason's learned, has a habit of traveling in pairs.

World Wars I and II, the death of one parent is followed by the death of another, the market runs out of your favorite brand cereal then your favorite chips. Murphy's Law, "anything that can go wrong will go wrong." It's why after that terrible morning, complete with learning a murdering man's partner has been killed in the army is only a prelude to act two. Jason calls it, "Attack of the Bad Feelings " or AOBF. Arguably, could have a better title, but Jason went to school to read about God, not proper acronym use. Three days after the death of Cyrus Gold, the sky opens-up and proceeds to unleash hell on Gotham in the form of warm, summer rain. Torrential downpours leave the streets caked in mud, only for it to stop, dry up, then rain again destroying all the hard work the shop owners do mopping the dirty footprints off their floors. That and it leaves Jason soaking wet from the small walk from Daniel’s car to the main gate. That leaves him in a foul mood for the rest of the day, damp and irritated. To top it all off he still hasn’t returned Lucas’ letter to him. It sits underneath his cassock like a brand, burning him with vile shame whenever he passes, then Block C. Hasn’t walked inside yet, because he can’t find the right way to tell Lucas “by the way your friend is dead.” Doesn’t seem like it would go over well with someone with a history of violence.

Should have realized the rain was only the opening to a very bad third day.

Jason is following Daniel into Blackgate's general administration building when a light as bright as a solar flare flashes in front of his face. Then he goes blind.

"Ryder, we said you could take a tour of the facility, not take pictures of the staff!" Bullock, Jason's never been so glad to hear his voice, shouts to the flash of light. The flash of light looks kind of like a man, if it weren't for the vivid after-image of purple and red clouding the center of his gaze every time he tried to blink them away. Now he looks like something fit from Orson Welles radio broadcasts. Complete with scary futuristic technology ready to zap fry Jason’s corpse into a bubbly pile of radioactive goo. Wishful thinking.

"I was only taking a picture of the administrative hall, Mr. Bullock," the light-man says. Jason scrubs his eyes with the palm of his hand and gets a better look at the sudden photographer. Cocky smile, brown hair, oh yes, Jason recognizes the voice now that he has the asshole's face to go along with it.

Jack Ryder, former CBS news anchor who once nearly got beaten to death during a live broadcast by a nun from Argentina whom he provoked into violence with a line of heavy questioning. Who seriously starts off a line of questioning with “do orphans deserve food?” and follows it up with “maybe sex trafficking does help the economy.” That Jack Ryder. The biggest cad on daytime television, standing in front of him with a camera and smirk on his face.

"Jack Ryder," he offers his hand to Daniel. "Los Angeles Times, do you mind doing an interview, Father Leone? I know you were close with Cyrus Gold, well as close as you can be without having your face ripped off."

Wow, okay yeah, meanest chucklehead Jason's ever heard. Daniel only blinks. Poor guy, looking between Jack and Bullock like the man can't handle so much walking sin within the vicinity of his pure morality. Jason feels absolutely terrible.

"I'm sure there are other men you could be interviewing. If you knew anything about manners or the sanctity of confession you'd know you'd be wasting your time." Jason frowns. Jack looks at him and it's with that same sort of boredom you show a fly that's gotten too close to your food.

"I'm sorry," Jack smiles. "Who are you?"

As if Jason's about to give his real name to someone with connections like Ryder. Misplaced arrogance, not stupidity, has led Jason down his life path. A life with crosses and loads of guilt. Just like Willis said. So, Jason’s left with the most obvious course of action, which is to lie, but Daniel seems to find his tongue at the worst possible time.

"Jason, please, it's alright."

"Jason," Jack croons and gets a good look at him. That kind of look that Jason assumes directors in Hollywood give the same to blonde, young girls from Kansas with dreams of bright, studio lights. "You're a little young to be a preacher, aren't you? Did they pull you right out of priest school to replace Reilly when they found him half-eaten?” Jack looks him up and down. “Not the best choice, I have to say. You're a little too pretty to be in here. Maybe you could give me an interview on the bull-queer population in Blackgate?"

Ok, wow, that's it. "Listen you pompous-"

"That's enough," Gordon's voice cuts across the hall. He enters the building like a storm. Men quickly turning away from the spectacle in front of them and back to their desks. Dick and another man, not an officer. Tall, painfully slicked back blonde hair, deep-set green eyes, and with an iron-pressed suit. Dick, Jason realizes, is frowning.

"Mr. Ryder, need I remind you that the purpose of your visit, as you claimed, was to cast Blackgate Penitentiary in a more positive light for the effect it had on the local community economy. I will not have you antagonizing the staff to make this some sort of incendiary tabloid piece."

Jason would like to mention to Gordon that, hello this is Jack Ryder. A man who'd sooner sell a reactionary story about his own mother than do actual journalism on the situation at Blackgate. Jack, true to Jason's word, looks only bored by Gordon's prompting and shrugs with a little nod.

"Sorry, I got ahead of myself," he turns to Jason with that toadie little smile and Jason does all he can to not retch when he's offered a hand. "I didn't mean to be so rude. Forgive me, father?"

Biggest douchebag ever, Jason takes his hand and shakes with a disgusted frown. "Of course, I apologize for my outburst."

"Yes, of course, don't let me get in your way."

Gordon looks between the two of them, wringing his hands. Indecisive on whether to strangle them or dig his fingers into the legs of his pants. He doesn’t make that decision.

“Mr. Gordon,” the stranger says, surprisingly eloquent with a distinctly exotic accent that Jason can’t place. English maybe or Belgian? Jason doesn’t know. Just that he sounds like a man who has no place in the interior of a prison and more along in the hallways of a university or handing out Noble prizes. “I hate to interrupt, but we have a strict schedule to keep. Perhaps, if Mr. Grayson could escort Mr. Ryder around the premises? I’d prefer to finish the check as fast as possible.”

“Right,” Gordon says, thoroughly embarrassed. “Dick, if you could.”

His blue eyes light up, relief as obvious as the sun on a clear day. He nods his goodbyes and leads Ryder away with a bright smile. “Have I showed you the cafeteria yet, Jack? Best food in all of Gotham.”

Which leaves Jason and Daniel in the presence of Gordon’s new friend, eyes flat and cold as ice chips.

“Jason, Daniel this is Leland McCauley. He’s from the governor’s office to do a review on Blackgate’s sanitation and electrical systems.” Gordon’s face is pinched together and he fumbles with the sentence in his mouth. McCauley looks at him with this kind of face that reads hostile disappointment bordering on a stern talking to. “After the incident with Cyrus.”

Incident. They’re calling it an incident now. Not the cock-up that it was, and now someone’s come to assign blame. Which is great and all but Jason thinks that maybe the state could have sent someone—anyone else really—that looked like they weren’t the kind of man that would take a box of puppies to a high-kill shelter. Daniel offers his hand. It’s almost like he insulted McCauley’s mother with the revulsion that oozes out of him. That’s perfect.

What did Jason say? Bad news comes in pairs.

* * *

 Jason more or less confines himself to the church and the officers' break room, the only two places that Jack Ryder, like the demonic entity he is, can't enter without permission. Which is good because Jason's reactions to seeing Jack Ryder again would probably result in an all-out fist fight. Hopefully, with Jason's fists making repeated contact with Jack's face. Wow. Okay, he thought that preaching and a pastor lifestyle was supposed to make him less angry and calmer. If anything, it gave him a new uniform to fight people in. A self-fulling prophecy spoken from the words of the worst part of human Jason’s met. _You are the worst son I could have been given by that stupid cunt of a woman_.

"Oh," Dick peeks into the lounge. It's only been Jason for most of the day, thankfully, couldn't imagine how it'd feel to spend time with other officers that would probably ask him asinine questions all morning. "Didn't know someone else was hiding too."

"I'm not hiding," Jason says. Lying too, what would Daniel say. "I'm just meditating somewhere I know no one will disturb me." Then because that was a terrible comeback, "what are you doing hiding here?"

"McCauley's been hounding everyone the entire morning. I'd rather not spend my afternoon listening to a sanitation officer lecture me how to open and close doors correctly." Dick smiles that infuriatingly perfect smile again. "Meditating, huh?"

"Yes, it's very important to me so I'll have to ask you to leave."

"Really."

"Yes, really, I need to focus on how to survive the next seven hours here without Ryder cornering me about something so ridiculously inept it makes he want to punch his face in." Jason realizes he says that aloud and curses under his breath. Dick, on the other hand, laughs.

"You're the most entertaining preacher I've ever met."

"Thanks," Jason says but doesn't mean. "I guess that's good."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but why did you become a preacher?" Jason frowns and Dick corrects himself. "I mean you're not exactly what most preachers are and I've heard from the others you aren't the most patient either."

Why did he become a preacher? That's an easy question. To regain faith in a species that he lost. Because it was the only way to escape from a house that didn't involve the handling of a gun. To find a better, more accepting family. There a multiple, terrible reasons Jason could elect to tell Dick. Why he chose to become a man of the cloth rather than trying to find a way to join the criminals behind Blackgate's bars. Because God only knows how much society liked him better on the other side of them.

Jason swallows and looks away. Dick, asshole good boy that he is, backtracks. "I'm sorry. I-Forget I said anything about that. Is it alright if I stay here and meditate with you?"

Jason shrugs.

They sit together in silence, well, whatever silence they can manage with the steady downpour of rain that continues to beat against Blackgate's walls. It’s rhythmic and calming. The loud thumping of droplets against the wall and the ground outside. Jason can only imagine how bad the streets of Gotham look now. Probably, flooded with mud and sand and whatever else the water dragged down with it. Closing his eyes, he can almost ignore the smell of burnt toast and mold and put his mind back in Vinegar Hill. With his bedroom and his childhood dog and the smell and taste of honeyed toast heavy on his tongue. The light butterfly touch of fingers across the curves of his too small and skinny shoulders with an airy yet smoke-ruined voice in his ear whispering. _I have you, darling_.

_Thoom._

Jason snaps open his eyes and startles away from the window. The familiar scents slip out of his nose leaving. He’s uncomfortably cold and the phantom aftertaste in his mouth leaves him swallowing tacky spit to clear away the taste. Across the room, Dick is laughing. Why is he laughing?

“What?” Jason frowns when Dick doesn’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” he wipes his eyes. “Didn’t think someone as big as you would fear a little thunder.”

Jason revises what he said about Jack. Clearly, Dick is the worst man to ever walk the planet Earth. “I’m not scared,” and even that sounds weak, “I don’t like loud noises. It caught me off guard is all.”

“Of course it did,” Dick grins. A weak flash of light illuminates the dark window and Jason’s clenching his hands into fists waiting for the following rolling boom. Even preparing for it does little to aid the way it shakes him down to the low pit of his stomach. Dick stops laughing and looks at him with something like shame. Which is worse, because that’s too close to being something like pity and it makes Jason’s face run hot.

“What?” He snaps.

“Come on,” Dick gets up with a tight smile and offers his hand. “Escort me back to my office, Father Todd? I need protection if I’m going to avoid McCauley or Ryder.”

It’s so obviously for Jason’s sake. A walk to get his mind off the thunder. It embarrasses him. Then it soothes him, then because it soothes him he goes right back to being embarrassed. God, works in mysterious, cringe-worthy ways.

“I can’t promise I won’t find an improper way to shut Ryder up if we run into him,” Jason gets up and straightens out to his full height. Least he can leave with his dignity somehow intact.

“You have quite the mouth for a preacher,” Dick grins. “Where were you when I was in seminary school?”

That doesn’t surprise him, but it does. The thought of a young, still handsome, Dick Grayson in a Catholic private school uniform peeking under the robes of nuns for a glimpse of their legs. Forever, chasing skirts. “I don’t think you’d need my help in starting trouble at school.”

“I was a good student,” Dick says. “Aunt Harriet made sure I behaved myself.”

Aunt Harriet? “Harriet Cooper?”

“Yes, sir,” Dick laughs at Jason’s face. It’s not fair because a normal human, i.e. Jason, would look at Dick “carved by God’s angels” Grayson and Harriet “Plain as the name Jane” Cooper and not put two and two together. “Oh, I know that face, yes it’s true. She’s my great aunt on my dad’s side so you can shut that mouth of yours. Raised me after my parents died, tried to make me a decent Catholic boy.”

“How well did that turn out?”

“Well, I’m in prison so you tell me.”

Jason smiles and laughs. Dick’s too good at that. Making people feel better than they ought to be feeling, making them smile that bright. Hard enough it makes their cheeks hurt. It’s a default for him. Men frown and Dick smiles. Drags you out of the darkness and into his little happy world of failed seminary school antics with aunts that look nothing like you. Jason’s face falls.

“Your parents,” he says and there’s a dark glimmer of something, melancholic and wretched in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Dick shrugs. “It’s been years.”

It’s been years, but I miss them like it was yesterday. It’s been years and I’m doing fine, but then that day rolls around and I’m nothing again. It’s been years, but I feel like I will never get over it. It’s been years, but I can’t forget them. Jason’s heard it all. There is nothing that eases the ache. He’s comforted grieving parents, widows and children before he moved to Gotham. In the main church in New York where the turf wars and contracts with unbridled rage and too many guns result in full orphans and empty bedrooms. Jason doesn’t know how to comfort someone in mourning. He never learned how. His strategy for dealing with anything besides anger is to ignore it and hide it way. Dust bunnies under a carpet. Ignore and forget and maybe one day he’ll forget what the pain feels like.

“Hey, you okay?” Dick snaps his fingers in front of his face. Jason blinks. Impish smile on his face standing in front of Jason looking as pleased as a peach. “Don’t tell me you were about to self-flagellate. It’s been years, Jay, I loved them, I miss them. End of story really.”

Jason darkens. “Narcissist.”

“There he is,” Dick elbows him with a smile. “Look at that. Even forgot about that scary thunder.”

“You’re awful, using your dead parents like that.”

“That’s me. Tell me all about how I’m going to hell,” Dick preens under the attention. There is no winning, Jason decides then. Dick will find a loophole and squeeze through it no matter how tight or small it is. It’s hard picking whether that just fuels his hatred—and it is hate, nothing like rivalry or anything equally childish—or makes him want to laugh. Then hurt him for tugging at Jason’s heart like that.

Still, Jason’s face falls and he closes his eyes. Thinks about Lucas and his hope and his sun and the just wanting to know the fate of his Andrew. He’s gotten too good at running away from his responsibility. “Dick, I could use your help with something-“

The crackle of lighting, which Jason’s never heard before but that must be it, lights up the hallway with the echoing boom of thunder. Rain hits against the glass windows along the walkway like pellets of rock. Another flash and the following roar is instantons. As a child, Jason’s mother told him to count the seconds between lightning and thunder. Each second was a mile. It was meant to show him how far away the danger was no matter how loud the storm sounded. Except now there is no second, just a flash and a bone-rattling rumble.

Dick frowns. “Come on, let’s get you to the church. Better to be away from the windows right now.”

Jason nods and sticks a little closer.

The officer break room overlooks cellblock B, where a majority of the violent offenders reside. Half the lights have still to be replaced from the blow out during the electric chair failure. The men lie in the dark, only the glittering wetness of their eyes catching the beam of flashlights the officers carry reflecting in the dark. Lurking in wait. Makes the hairs stand up on the back of Jason’s neck the same way walking down an empty alley in the middle of the night does. The same way being home alone until the shadows move and you aren’t so sure you’re by yourself anymore feels. That’s block B. Jason knows this because he’s been avoiding block B ever since he found out Roman Sionis called row 2 cell A-3 home. Jason’s not scared of a man behind Blackgate steel bars, but he doesn’t see the point in rattling the cage of a hungry tiger without purpose. It’s the definition of dumb. Literally, there's probably a photo of a man standing there with his head in a tiger's mouth.  _Dumb, see above image._  The population in block B doesn’t look too happy about the weather either. A lot of the men are yelling and the guards are tense lines of muscle. Jason also notices there are a lot fewer guards on duty.

Most had been working long hours in the leading days up to the execution. They’ve been given time off, letting Blackgate operate with only a skeleton crew. Looking across the walkway Jason makes eye contact with Roman, pacing around the interior of his lavishly furnished cell. _Hungry fucking tiger_.

He smiles and Jason glares back then resolutely ahead. Tries very hard not to look like he’s clinging to Dick’s back.

“Dick,” Jason says. “Hurry up.”

“Easy,” Dick says, barely loud enough over the rain. “Easy, don’t panic, Jay. Just walk slow with me.”

A flash of light. _Thoom_. Jason jumps and there’s a low growl of laughter behind him. He glances back and sees a man, white hair, black eye patch leaning against the bars. “New friend, Grayson?”

“Not now, Slade,” Dick grabs him by the arm and forces Jason in front. “Keep walking, Jay. Come on.”

A low reverberating thrum echoes across the block. A current underneath the inmates jeering at one another and the rain. The lights overhead shine brighter and then dim suddenly. Dick freezes and turns to one of the officers.

“Gannon, what the hell is going on?” Dick motions to the lights. “What are they doing?”

“McCauley wanted a test run of sparky, see if they couldn’t pinpoint what went wrong.”

“In the middle of a thunderstorm?” Dick says. Suddenly, Jason’s not feeling too hot.

“Dick,” Jason says and keeps himself from looking back where Roman is leaning out of the bars.

“McCauley wanted the test done before he left tomorrow. Gordon tried to tell him to delay, but he was adamant. Not our fault if someone has to replace all the lights again because some sanitation worker was impatient.” Gannon hesitantly looks up at the lights. “Though I wouldn’t stand under them.”

A flash of light, a rumbling boom, the overhead lights glow brighter and the prison alarm blares once. A pop. One of the lights blows out in a puff of glimmering glass fragments.

Death by electric chair works like this. Three shocks. It takes three shocks to kill someone. One after the other. Jason’s never seen it, but he knows procedure from how Reilly wrote about it in his notes. The scent of ozone overpowered by burning flesh and hair. The stink of feces and piss from involuntary muscle contractions. If presented with a chair or a bullet, Jason would choose the bullet every time. They have one more shock left to run. It’s true what they say. Third time’s the charm. Bad news comes in pairs, KIA letter and torrential rain, Jack Ryder and Leland McCauley, lightning and thunder.

The hairs on the back of Jason’s neck stand up. For a moment, he feels like every single molecule in his body is tuned to this one, terrible moment. There is silence as if the world has been muted. The rain is distant white noise, the soft lullaby of a horrible symphony. Jason meets Dick’s eyes and wonders, hysterically, how could anyone ever be born with eyes as blue as his. A powerful thrum as they run the electric chair for a third and final time. The lights grow bright and brighter still.

Sound pops in Jason’s ear. So loud it makes the world go completely and utterly still. Devoid of anything besides a far-off, but steady ringing. An explosion. There must have but Jason doesn’t know where yet because awareness is a fickle thing and when shown unimaginable horror the mind tends to take it slow. Second by agonizing second. Here’s a strange thing too. Jason didn’t know lighting could be so loud. Thunder, whatever it was. It must have struck the building or something because Jason’s body is like a live wire. The urge to run singing with the blood rushing in his ears.

The answer comes with a static voice over the intercom. “ _Bzzzt-generator hit, power-failure_.” The intercom shuts off.

Then the lights go out. Metal screeches and Jason’s heart stops. Then the cell doors open.


	3. I Put A Spell On You - Screamin' Jay Hawkins

Jason lived in Clearwater, Kansas for a month before he moved to Gotham County.

It was an exceedingly rural town, shockingly simple to the packed concrete alleyways of Vinegar Hill. There were more trees on a street corner than there were in all of Manhattan. He'd never seen so much green after a childhood of sidewalk grays and worn-brick reds. It was far enough from Wichita to pretend like you were living in the middle of nowhere, but close enough that if you wanted to return to society you only needed a spare half an hour for the twenty-mile drive. Jason had been aiming for greater distance, but the culture shock from New York to Kansas was already big enough. He'd never gotten used to the abundance of horses and cows he'd walk by on the way to church. The most wildlife he'd seen growing up had been rats the size of small cats and fat pigeons.

The people were nice. They were plainer than the characters Jason had grown up alongside of in New York. Stuck two decades behind the rest of the country, but sweet. He adored the fresh air, the lack of smog, and watching the beautiful sunsets over the flat farmland during warm summer nights. One evening he stayed late to help one of Clearwater's youth ministers repair the water-damaged floor in the church tool shed. Jason had never seen so many lightning bugs. They lit up the fields like embers on a heap of dry logs. Spent at least an hour eyeing them flickering between the branches of a nearby cottonwood tree. Jason was barely over the age of nineteen, an adult by most standards. Still, he chased them around the same way he did when he was five years old in Central Park with his mother. It was familiar. It was safe. He imagined he'd stay in Clearwater forever.

Which is when--as everything in Jason's sort unhappy life does--went wrong.

They had less than four minutes. The youth minister, born and raised in Topeka, probably knew from the moment the winds changed. Was already throwing the door open long before the haunting call of the tornado siren echoed from the confines of the steeple roof. Jason had never heard a siren before. Sure, police sirens were as common as cockroaches were to New York. They were his lullabies growing up. This was different. The reverberation seemed to shake up through the soles of Jason's feet, resonating out into the emptied stretches of farmland. Silencing the lighting bugs with a lingering, frantic wail.

The minister didn't even bat an eye, hauling Jason into the church basement by the collar of his shirt. Pinned him to the bottom of the bathroom's bathtub, his body a protective shell over top of him. Murmured soothing words. "Shh, shh, it's going to be alright."

It was the beginning of a period called the "1961 Wichita Outbreak," with 95 confirmed tornadoes over a twenty-eight hour period. Jason spent two days trapped in the basement, clinging to the minister wondering when the howling winds and thunder would tear apart the church and suck them out into the storm. He barely ate let alone drank, curled up in the curve of the tub while the minister would get up and raid the basement cupboards for food. Until the faint sounds of the siren would force him back over Jason while thunder boomed above them.

When the storm finally broke, Jason spent his remaining money to buy a train ticket to New Mexico, hitchhiked to Las Vegas then Gotham. Haunted in his dreams with the chilling tone of the warning siren and the crackle of thunder. He chose California because it wasn't like New York with its suffocating cities or Kansas with its serene and stretching plains. He thought it would be different.

Of course, it didn't matter. Bad luck rode his coattails from Vinegar Hill to Clearwater and now Gotham.

There are at least two to four prisoners per cell, cramped in the small spaces. A few of the men like Roman, with money lining the inside of their pockets share with no one. All of them pour out like ants from a flooded hill swarming the lower level floor. Jason can't see much. The lights have all gone dark and the flashlights on each guard are barely strong enough to illuminate the entire cellblock. The officers rush down to meet them. Their batons were drawn, but guns firmly holstered.

"Get back in your cells!" He hears being snarled. Jason doubts, under normal circumstances, that voice would make even the largest inmate shuffle back into their cell. But this isn't normal; there's barely a functioning skeleton crew. The men are worn out, exhausted from keeping the protestors under control the week before. It shows. Shows in the way the guards' voices break barking out orders drowned out beneath the erupting chaos. The inmates don't do anything but yell and laugh, more interested in bickering amongst themselves then the few officers that come to detain them. For a moment it's less violence and more loud confrontation. The Blackgate men regard the officers with as much concern as a tantrum-throwing child does a worn-out teacher.

One inmate, a spindly, little man with dozens upon dozens of tally mark scars that run up and down his arms throws himself onto the nearest correctional officer. When the lighting flashes next he is covered in black blood with a scrap of metal wrapped in cloth, driving it in and out of the officer's neck with animalistic glee. That is when Jason finally snaps out of his daze. The rest of the officers do too, pulling their guns from their holsters and firing the moment someone gets too close. "Hey, _hey_!"

A hand grabs Jason's wrist and he nearly trips over the railing from sheer panic. Dick, the lines on his face drawn tight in the shadows, tugs him forward. Gannon, in front of them, shoves a man in Blackgate pale orange inside a cell. Gannon whips him across the face with the butt of his gun when he tries to get up again.

"Jason, stay next to me," Dick says. Eyes calm but hard he tugs Jason forward and in between himself and Gannon. "We've got a civilian here, Malloy, we need to get him to administration."

"Think I don't know that?" Gannon says. "The rest of the men in here need help."

Two plus two equals four. It's basic math. There are sixty cells in cellblock B with an average of two prisoners per cell. That means one hundred and twenty inmates in comparison to the twelve night-guards currently on duty. One hundred and twenty is greater than twelve. Simple math Jason understands. The same way Jason understands that over one hundred men put away for violence is like lighting a powder keg in the center of a dynamite factory. Ka- _fucking_ -boom.

"That's an order, Gannon," Dick says. "Come on, push forward we got to go before," Dick glances behind him. Whatever he sees deepens his frown. He nudges Jason onward. "Come on."

Gannon, regret unmistakable in the hard lines of his scowl, curses but doesn't argue further. They were nearly halfway across the walkway before the power shut off, only a few feet left. Jason doesn't know why they're going to the administrative building. If the power is out all over the prison--hopefully unlikely--that means the gates in the administrative building are now open. No safe zones. Unless certain blocks have a dedicated backup generator to help them sort out whatever mess the lightning storm left them in they've got no panic room. The odds aren't great and Jason, though he doubts anyone's listening, sends up a prayer anyway. _Come on, chum, please don't let us be beaten to paste before the hour is up thank you._

The majority of the inmates scatter. Only the ones that crave violence rush the remaining armed officers. Pushing them back and gleefully punching whatever face gets in range of their fists. As terrifying as they are, they don't worry Jason. Those men are as predictable as the drug peddlers and mafia men in Vinegar Hill. As easy to avoid as getting out of the way of a whining fire truck. It's the men who vanish into the dark like the stars at dawn, slipping out to who knows where. Jason doesn't see Roman. Hasn't seen him since the cell doors opened. Those are the men that make the hair on the make of his neck stand straight. It'd be easier, safer if the men just started rioting in the center of the cellblock. Most don't stick around and that is infinitely worse.

Gannon reaches the door to the administrative wing first. Holds it open for Dick and Jason to slip through. When Dick's barely cleared the frame he slams it shut, locking it in place on the other side.

"Gannon?" Dick grabs the door. It doesn't budge. He pounds on it and turns desperate, slamming his entire body into the unforgiving metal. "Gannon, open this door!"

The response is muffled. "Have to keep them contained for as long as we can Dick. Get Todd out of here and the power back on. I'll help clean up while you sort everything out."

Dick's hardly deterred. Grips the handle with both of his hands and yanks it down. Biceps straining against the confine of his sleeves but the door stands strong. "You unlock this door right now, Malloy, that's an order."

"Bring up my insubordination at my next review." Footsteps, barely audible beneath the pounding rain, retreat from the door. Dick snarls, slamming his foot into the steel door.

"Damn you, Gannon, you idiot," he presses his forehead against the cool metal. Eyes squeezed tightly shut; he pounds a fist against it one last time. "Come on, we have to get a move on."

Shoving off the door Dick pulls his baton and flashlight free. Hands the latter to Jason. "Keep it pointed forward, I'll go first. Stay behind me."

Couldn't agree more. Dick walks down the hallway first, baton out, gun still firmly holstered at his side. Jason would, of course, comment on how their odds of survival would greatly benefit from the gun being outside the holster--since bullets tend to deter humans more so than waving a stick--but is too busy concentrating on flashing the light around Dick's form. No time to argue at all really. That puts a damper on Jason's inherent desire to be belligerent. That paired with the eerie silence of the administrative building's third floor, blackened in shadows and devoid of most workers, only makes him meeker than normal. Adds to the overall creepy atmosphere, torrential rain and thunder steadily beating against the thick prison walls.

"Where is everyone?" Redundant question, Jason knows, but the prison was half abandoned when the majority of the officers were given the day off. Coming to realize that it wasn't just the officers that had been given the day to relax makes Blackgate feel more like a ghost town than largest operating prison on the Western seaboard.

"Most of the administrative workforce was given the day off considering what happened last week," Dick says. "Besides it was easier to keep them all at home than have Leland ask them to stop working to sort through their papers."

"Doesn't Blackgate need its administrative workers to keep the prison running?" Like a train needs someone dumping coal into its engine. Doesn't seem all that smart to let everyone stay in their beds.

"Only paperwork-wise. Bolton had the men who were needed to answer Leland's inquiries come in."

"Where are they then?" the offices look, at least to Jason, mostly empty. Even shining the light slightly off course from Grayson's path over the tops of desks revealed next to nothing. Besides stacked files and trinkets crowding the wooden surfaces. The light glints off the top of a black and white family portrait. A vase with half-dead flowers casts spindly shadows, like the long legs of a spider across the far wall.

"They'll be on the bottom floor, the third floor is accounting and system operations mostly. They don't need a whole floor to sort through the numbers and Leland made it abundantly clear he’d rather complete the task himself."

Further proof Leland was the kind of man that demanded perfection and abused his power to get there. "What are we looking for in here?"

Considering they hadn’t made a beeline for the stairs yet. Probably should be priority number one seeing as the situation had quickly gone from terrible to a matter of life and death over the course of several seconds. Dick's almost lackadaisical passing of the desks is almost unspeakably alarming to the horror Gannon had just trapped himself with. Dick stops beside what appears, at least to Jason, a random desk. Opens up the first drawer and rifles through its contents; letters addressed to a nearby Edison company, gridded papers organized by days of the week and what might be power outflow.

"What are you doing?" Jason lowers his voice. No telling if anyone made it out of the block before Gannon sealed off the entrance. His gaze around the room following the beam of light, waiting for the flash of eye-white in the dark, hiding within a number of dark spaces. The blood roars in Jason's ears from the rabbit-quick beat of his heart.

"Looking for a blueprint of the prison. I don't know where electrical is, but I can hazard a pretty good guess that it's on the grounds outside the on-site factory. The backup generator is in the basement, but it should have kicked on by now unless it was damaged." Dick shuts the desk and opens up another drawer. Pushes aside empty manila envelopes and candy wrappers before he finds a folder marked "Onan Generator."

Jason thinks about the lightning combined with the electric chair. "Could the storm have overloaded the power and caused the system to short-circuit?"

It's really the only way Jason can imagine a prison as enormous and formidable could have feasibly failed. Dozens of safeguards and backup protocols were handed out in thick booklets to new hires--Jason's sat below the altar's podium--Blackgate was prepared for anything. A lucky lightning strike shouldn't have been able to accomplish what it had. "It's a possibility, but the backup generator shouldn't have. It's not connected to the main system when it's off. It's supposed to turn on the moment there's any kind of failure of one or all of the core transformers. I'll have to take a look in the basement."

Dick checks the opposite door at the other end of the office. It's locked securely and Dick leaves it. While walking back into the room he takes Jason's arm in one hand and leads him to the supply closet in the back. He opens the door and stands aside.

"Go on, get in."

"Get in that?" Jason looks at the closet. At least four shelves, stacked high with an assortment of cleaning products. A mop and dry metal bucket tucked away in the back corner. Jason would barely be able to sit down inside, as small as it is, let alone stay in there for a long amount of time. "Why?"

"Listen, I don't want to leave you alone, but I don't know if anyone's available to reach the backup generator in the basement of the administration block. If Gordon weren’t on the other side of Blackgate with Leland where the electric chair is I'd escort you to him before I went down to the basement. As it happens we don't have the benefit of time or the numbers."

Dick's no bigger than a Pomeranian facing a group of Alaskan Malamutes. They're bigger, they're angrier, and aren't concerned about Dick's mission with forcing them back into a cell. Their goal happens to be arguably simple. Kill and escape--that is if they even want to escape and not just kill everyone they happen to cross paths with. Dick might be a trained police officer, but they're a group of murdering psychopaths. Reilly left numerous files behind in his office detailing the former careers of each man. It was an attempt to get to know their cases better-- a fat lot of good that did in regards to Cyrus. Roman's ex-Camorra and Lucas is ex-military. Jason didn't have time to read all the files but doubts those are the only men in Blackgate with a history that involves inflicting a certain level of violence on another human being.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Jason says and he's almost amazed. Stunned that Dick would do something as idiotic as this. To risk his life re-starting the power with an unknown number of men released from their cells. One man is already dead, there's no telling how many more that could be at this point.

"The rest of the staff will need every little bit of manpower to keep Blackgate under control. I need you, on the other hand, to stay put until I can find someone else to escort you to safety."

"By having me hide in a closet?" Juvenile really. Children hid in their closets and Jason hasn't been a child since he turned five years old. The phantom stink of Willis' whiskey-tinged breath burns in Jason's nose. In the corners of the enclosed space, the shadows impossibly appear to grow darker. More confining. Jason rubs his nose and turns away from the closet. One of the bottles of cleaner must be leaking, that's all. "We can figure out something else."

"There is nothing else."

Growing up, Jason only had few ways to entertain himself. His family couldn't afford a television and the best toys he could afford were the marbles he'd won in games from other children. Broken branches in the park were his swords in imaginary games of knights and princesses. Rocks were grenades in make-believe war stories their grandparents told them. Aside from that, there was an old homeless man, a veteran of World War 2 that lost half of his left leg and all of his right. He lived in an old drainage pipe the city had rerouted years ago. Made friends with the birds that lived in Central Park with promises of breadcrumbs he'd picked from the trash. No family to speak of and no way to provide for himself, he'd been quick to befriend the children who played around the entrance of his only home.

He'd often tell them war stories about the horrors of Normandy and the prison camps he'd help the Russians liberate. Exaggerated, sometimes, but he was the only storyteller they had. There was a story Jason remembers him telling them when the fall winds would pick up at the beginning of the oncoming of winter. A woman he'd seen burned alive.

"When a human is in great, unimaginable pain, they scream. You can scream now at the top of your lungs, but it won't be like that. Even if you tried to think of the worst pain you have ever felt multiplied by a hundred you wouldn't be close. It's like hearing an animal with their foot caught in a trap. In Ireland, they have a name for a wraith, an otherworldly creature that when you hear its scream, it means death is coming. A banshee. When I heard that woman scream I heard the high-pitched, desperate wail the Irish soldiers talked about. My squadron laughed at me. That night the Germans pushed back. We were slaughtered. Everyone died. I nearly did, and even though I lived I lost my legs. What I have left is not a life worth living, it might have been better if I died a hero."

Sometimes, in the dark of night, Jason would imagine that woman's scream. Tortured and desperate, clinging to whatever traces of life she had left in their unmoving limbs. He's only thought of that scream twice in his whole life. What followed was the death of his father and then his mother.

The shriek that rings out behind the locked door of block B is inhuman. It is only powerful, raw emotion vocalized by the keening voice of a man in horrific, tremendous agony. Jason can feel the warmth in his blood evaporate like water, leaving him shivering in cold terror. Dick himself is unnaturally pale.

"Oh God," Dick murmurs. Taking the flashlight, he forces Jason back into the closet and shuts the door behind him. "Stay there don't move. Don't even breathe. I'll be back with help."

There’s the patter of footsteps running away from the door and Jason is stuck there, hand pressing against the tight line of his mouth. _Don't fucking breathe._

* * *

It could be an eternity or only a few long seconds later in the cramped, dark space of the closet when Jason finally moves again. His limbs are stiff, tense from being frozen for so long. The distant sound of thunder slaps him harder than an open-palm. He is alone on the third floor of the administrative building in a maximum security prison for some of the most dangerously violent offenders in the state of California--no, the entire United States--and the only thing keeping them away from his soft, fleshy body has been temporarily disabled. No telling whether or not that safety net will return before someone finds him.

The fact that Jason isn't curled up on the floor sucking his thumb like a worrying child must mean that the shock hasn't full processed yet. There's no reason why he should be so in control of his actions right now.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

Prioritize, that's object number one. It's the only way Jason knows he won't go completely despondent with alarm in such a scenario. Where is he? On the third level of Blackgate's administrative building. Right. Ok, he's not that far from the exit to Blackgate itself, all he would have to do is walk down several flights of stairs until he reaches the main floor. All that's left is to walk or climb past the gate. Simple. He's not wearing Blackgate inmate colors and doubts the watchtowers are still full of guards monitoring the entrance at a time like this. It's his best shot to get out of the prison, back into town and contact the sheriff.

Fuck that, the entire National Guard would be needed in a situation like this.

Number two; he's currently trapped in a closet that can be opened from the outside. Jason runs a hand up and down the doorframe and finds nothing to lock it with. Right, this room went from being possibly safe to absolutely not in the span of several seconds. There's no light or windows to really determine what's in the room and Jason doesn't read braille so there he's got little to no idea what kind of chemicals are in the room. Relying on them as a potential deterrent for anyone that finds him, with no so pleasant intentions, would be like trusting a parachute with half of its wingspan torn through.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

There's a mop in the corner of the room that Jason knows. A weapon if he needs, but it would be infinitely better if he had a baton like Dick or, better yet, a gun. He's getting ahead of himself. All he has to do is get out of the prison and contact the proper authorities and that will be it. He'll be out of there in no time with help. No need to worry about defense. Just get out and wipe his hands clean of the entire mess. This is not his problem.  _This is not his problem._

Jason presses himself up against the door.

Distantly, he can hear the sound of the rain pounding against the side of the building in proverbial sheets. Probably more than what the entire state has gotten in the last three years. Of all times to end a drought did it have to be now? Stepping away from the door Jason imagines the layout of the route in his mind. Ten steps to the entrance of the stairwell, three levels down, and finally an immediate right should get him out.

What else does Jason need before he leaves the small safety of the closet? A flashlight or an inextinguishable flare to light his path back to Gotham. Without it, he'd be as valuable if he stayed in the closet the entire time, absolutely and entirely useless. There are, however, a number of police cruisers sitting in Blackgate's parking lot. Jason, before the period of his life that had him running into the arms of the nearest clothed minister, found out how easy it was to break into an unwatched car. Not hard with the proper tools, but Jason knows something easier. After all, there are plenty of rocks sitting around the desert that could shatter a number of windows.

Get out, jack a car, drive into town and alert the police. Prioritize Jason's got this.

Besides the rain and the now slightly quieter crackle of thunder, Jason hears nothing. No alarm, no men screaming and tearing at each other, only ambient white noise. It's the most terrifying sound Jason's ever heard, the tense silence. That someone could be lurking in the darkness of the room, lying in wait. He does himself no favors lingering, easy bait for any of the men that slipped away after the cells open. So he takes a steadying breath and peeks out of the closet.

The room is still dark, with only the faint flash of faint lightning illuminating the cubicles every so often. Aside from the shadows of the chairs and the typewriters on the desks, there is nothing that looks suspiciously like another person. Just to be safe, however, Jason reaches back into the dark of the closet and feels around until he finds the sturdy handle of the mop. He drags it out and cracks it over his knee.

Stupid, he curses himself with the loud wood splintering that echoes across the vacant room. However, it's a lot easier to run out into the middle of prison with a weapon that's agile than the full length of a sopping wet mop.

There are a few doors around the room, one where Dick and he came from in Block B. The next leads to the Medical wing and finally two doors that open to the stairs and the elevator. Jason hardly believes there's any power left in the elevators--if there were a lot of prisoners wouldn't be running around--and heads towards the stairs.

He walks fast; the broken end of the handle held out and reaches the door without so much as a whimper from any direction. For all the chaos the prison descended into the moment the lights went out, there is no screaming or yelling now. Jason hopes, somewhere inside, that order's somehow been restored and they are all, for the time being, just in the dark with the prisoners waiting patiently in their cells for the gates to close. Sure, the idea is so far from the reality it resides in another star system, but it eases the panic in his gut somewhat. At the very least the thought gets him to grasp the door handle and move inside.

The stairs, like the offices, are dark and empty. Jason grips the railing before he takes a step, just to decrease the likelihood of tumbling down the stairs and eating shit before he gets anywhere. He descends one step and then the next until he is finally at the bottom floor. It's almost peaceful, with the muffled sound of the rain throwing itself against the walls of the prison. Jason closes his eyes and tries to breathe in deeply through his nose. _You are not back there. You are not back there._

Growing up, thunder had never been scary. He'd enjoyed it the same way children do, watching something innately dangerous and laughing over their parents frantic worrying. He liked the way the rain would be illuminated by the sparks of electricity in the shape of tree branches. Once he wanted to get struck by lightning if only to have a unique and interesting scar to show off to the rest of the boys on the street. Or at least to hide the ugly, jagged scars that curved around the lower portion of his back. Something he could tell someone about and not keep close to his chest, festering with every concerned sideways glance.

He stayed out too late during a thunderstorm once, watching the lightning strike and rumble in the distance, listening. Saw the gray, dappled pelt of a large cat stalking its prey in the clouds when the bell to the clock tower in Times Square tolled for two am in the morning. The memory of the whip-crack of fear that clenched his heart drives the air from his lungs even now. His dad didn't like him staying out late--not that Jason listened--but always made it back before Willis at two-thirty. His mother had been home late once. She could barely eat through the straw past the metal used to wire her broken jaw in place. That had Jason rushing back to hole in the wall he called home, past racing cars on water-slick streets before his father.

He ran harder than he ever had at the age of seven, darting over lumps in the sidewalk and cutting down alleyways through encampments of homeless migrants from the Depression. He nearly got all the way. A few blocks from his house he decided to duck down the alleyway of a bar to cut off time. Made it halfway before the back entrance of the bar swung open and a figure stumbled out. Jason ran into the man, spilling the contents of his bottle onto the dirty concrete while he collapsed. It was his dad, trashed and furious, staring at the spilled whiskey mixing with the rainwater in the alley.

"What have you done, boy?" He slurred. Pink, glassy eyes focused on his form, huddling against the dented metal of the bar's dumpster. Recognition brought sudden laser-focused clarity, pinning Jason in fear to the ground. "What the hell are you doing out?"

"I was just going home," Jason said scrambling to his feet. His dad had always been faster and stronger than him. It was easy, no matter how drunk he was or how wet Jason had been. He wrapped an arm around Jason’s throat and threw him against the wall.

Nearby lightning flashed and cracked down on a nearby telephone pole sending sparks and wires flying to the ground. For a split second, it illuminated the back portion of his father's head, casting his face in exaggerated shadow while the pink whites of his eyes shone brightly. Mouth open in a foul snarl he threw Jason onto the ground and took off his shoe with shaking but firm hands.

The booming thunder almost powered his dad's slurred roaring. The impact of the boot split open the thin skin on his lips and forehead. Jason tried to crawl away but the flashes of light only showed his dad's shadow stretching over him and swallowing him inside a pit of lightless black. By the time his father was finished his face was mottled purple and black. Eyes swelled so tightly shut Jason found his way out of the alley using memory and touch. Legs barely carried him through the empty early morning streets and the heavy taste of copper on his tongue overwhelmed him with vicious nausea.

In the end, he never made it home that night. Instead, he curled up inside a soaked cardboard box, stinking of cat piss and mold and wait until morning. Thunder continued throughout the night and every rumble had him curling up tighter, worried the shadowy visage of his father would return for another round.

Jason grips the railing tighter and closes his eyes. He hasn't thought about his father so clearly he in a long time. Another thing Blackgate accomplished exceptionally well, drawing out memories that Jason had done well to keep locked up. Maybe it's because the Blackgate men would have welcomed Willis with a slap to the back. His father might have done well in Blackgate, surrounded by men as scummy as he was. They'd all be pals. Talk about the way they beat their kids or compare stories about the worst things they had ever done. Jason's dad would probably win those contests, which man was tougher on their children, every single time.

Jason wipes his wet eyes and takes in a shaky breath through his nose. He's made it to the bottom level.

Walking out onto the main floor of the building inspires little confidence that B had been the only building affected by the outage. It's quiet, ominously so, and the officers that should be behind the gated front office, working at their typewriters are gone. Normally, there are at least five men on duty in the main office. Today there were only two both now gone. _Breathe in. Breathe out._ Hightails it across the room to the entryway and pushes open the heavy door.

Howling wind and pouring rain, like someone dumped a bucket over him, immediately floods in through the open door. Jason brings an arm up over his face, pushing out the door and into the rain. Within a second of being outside, he's absolutely soaked to the skin, straight through his cassock and black slacks. He doesn't stop, trudging forward through the rain and down the decorative steps to the muddy ground. Jason learns very quickly how cement like and messy the muddy sand is, sucking in the bottom of his dress shoes and almost refusing to let go as he slogs out into the storm.

There is nothing but dark open desert and rain. Flashing of distant yet still dangerously close lighting being his only guide forward. That isn't even the worst of it.

Jason can see the faint but obvious cascading water miles ahead, like a small river swamping the parked cars up to their side windows. Blackgate Penitentiary had been built in the dried up floodplain of the ancient Gotham River. It had sat empty, nothing but a dusty ditch in the middle of the Mojave Desert for years. The never-ending storm had brought more than a few inches of water with it from Baja. Collecting for days after non-stop downpours the storm had given life back to the prehistoric river.

"Fuck," Jason says though it is lost in the thundering sound of the wind and rain. Fuck.

There is no way into Gotham to alert the sheriff of the power outage.

Jason could chance it. Hobbling around in the dark and the storm to make his way back to Gotham. Certainly would put distance between himself and the rioting inmates--especially out of Roman's hands wherever he crept off to. On the other hand, there's no telling if the other officers have it under control by now. Maybe it was just cell Block B and not the entirety of Blackgate--and isn't that just a naive thought--that lost power. It's predictable the decision to go or stay really. The temperature at night in the desert falls dangerously low. That in combination with darkness, rain, and flash flooding means Jason might as well be as good as dead. One look at the cars half drowned in water tells him there's no way he'd be driving out of that mess in any occasion. They're all lucky the whole prison isn't underwater yet. The steadily growing river just out the front gate doesn't look like it's about to shrink anytime soon.

They'll have to contact the Californian authorities to help clean the mess up. At least, that is what Jason assumes. He remembers something similar happening in New York State Penitentiary when a hurricane flooded the lower level of the prison.

_It was dark and cold. Water had been seeping into the holes of his standard issue shoes through his woolen socks. No one could hear him in his single cell on the first floor of the detention center. His voice had broken hours ago, drowned by the rushing swell of seawater that poured in through the cracked exterior wall in the cell over. No one was coming. No one was going to get him in time. He opened his mouth and he screamed-_

Thunder booms overhead and Jason stumbles back on reflex, landing in the sticky sandy mud. A shiver quakes up his back, ice cold. He pushes himself up and heads back into the unlit main entryway, clutching his arms around himself when another violent shudder moves along his spine.

"That's perfect," Jason mutters to himself. "Soaked and completely defenseless."

His uniform is ruined. There's no reason to keep wearing considering current circumstances. Jason knows the officers' locker room is on the second floor of the administrative building. Or at least some are. Half of them don't bother taking their uniforms home. Either that or Blackgate inmate orange and one of those choices is particularly terrible. Jason frowns at the thought of borrowing someone else's clothes, but he'd rather not stay soaked for the entirety of this ordeal. So he goes back to the stairs and re-climbs them faster now. No one's bothered him yet, it might be safe to assume Gannon and the other men have it under control. The lights are still off, however. Where was Dick? They should have been switched back on by now.

The officer's locker room is unlocked, not a soul in sight. Jason flinches at how loud his breathing is, echoing off the drywall of the room. Shoves down the inherent freakiness of the shady room and pushes further inside.

Most of the lockers are locked big surprise. A few are open with only a water bottle and some pictures of family tapped to the metal door. Jason finds a club stuffed in one--takes it because he might be a pacifist but he is hardly stupid--and only finds a uniform in the last open locker. It stinks slightly of sweat that, Jason glances at the name tag; Officer Carter had left behind to be washed. Taking off his sopping wet cassock is one of the hardest tasks Jason's ever done. Weighed down by water it sticks to Jason's skin and the awkward weight is an immediate relief once it slides off. Rests it on a nearby bench then he takes off his cincture, slacks, and black button-up. His briefs are damp but hardly as drenched as the rest of his clothes. He redresses in Carter's clothes, pulling the belt just a little bit tighter around the one size too loose pants. Carefully, Jason hides his former clothes in the locker and takes the flashlight from Carter's belt. At least now he has a better way of looking around. Jason would feel safer with a gun if he was going to be completely honest, but the armory was located on the basement floor with needed clearance in order to be let in. No one was about to let Jason in--if there even was still someone at their post in the armory.

_Changed clothes, now what?_

The car was clearly a bad idea and getting wet again was about as low on Jason's list of priorities than going back to hide in a closet. The safest bet was to find Gordon or another high-ranking officer like Bolton--though Jason can think of three other people he'd rather spend a thunderstorm and riot with. The electrical chair was on the lower level of Block C, the solitary wing, completely on the opposite side of the prison. He'd have to go through B or A to get there, or avoid all of it and instead cut across the yard.

Rain pounds against the nearby barred window. Jason grimaces. Getting soaked after spending the last several minutes looking for a change of clothes hardly sounds appealing. Staying inside and out of the weather would make it a lot more comfortable. Then again being shanked by a free-roaming inmate isn't exactly nice either. Finding a way to avoid both is what he has to do.

The first thought that comes to mind is the attic floor. Blackgate has to have them, with the decorative and out-of-place steeple roofs. Jason entertains the idea of the vents for a moment. Disregards it instantly because there is one thing Jason is and that is not small. There should be an entrance to the attic floor through the stairwell, which means so long as Jason doesn’t run into anyone he could get to Gordon without getting caught-

A slam of metal rings from the back of the hall followed by a voice, "Bring him in here."

Jason dives back into the locker. Stepping on the soaked remains of his cassock he pulls the door shut behind him and claps a hand over his mouth. There's shrill laughter and pained groaning that grows louder and louder, accompanied by the tapping of several pairs of shoes. Now he didn't get a good look at either of the men, but Jason thinks it's safe to say they aren't the friendly sorts. Especially when that laughter sounds the same way a man crouching over a hapless damsel looks.

"Please," a rough and hoarse voice chokes out. "You don't know what you're doing."

"I have an idea," a smoother voice, like the leathery hiss of a snake, purrs. "Get him on the ground, we don't have much time."

An officer? Inmates? Jason can't tell. He turns to the side and presses his face against the grates. He can't see much, the shadowy figure of maybe four men in the darkness. Lightning flashes and it turns to five, four standing and one hunched over on the ground. The four are in Blackgate orange while the man sobbing on the floor is in an officer's uniform. Dark stains of red are splattered across the front and the sides of their clothes. The man trembling on the floor looks far worse. His red hair pushed back and matted across his forehead, in filthy, glistening strands. Jason recognizes Mac from a few days ago. Barely, in any event, his face looks like a half-smashed tomato, swollen red in the shape of a massive handprint.

"I don't have the key to the armory," Mac pleads. "The others, Gordon and Bolton do. They're the only ones allowed to open it up without supervision."

"What's the use of having a cop if they're so useless?" One of the men, a short, fat man with front teeth big enough to make Bugs Bunny jealous chitters excitedly. "Sionis said he'd pay top dollar for whoever got the armory opened first."

 _Roman._ Barely an hour or so out of his cell and he's already got a number of men running errands for him. That hardly makes Jason feel any better about his current situation. The first speaker grimaces. "How can he pay you if the IRS cut him off from his thousands years ago? All he has left is that big mouth of his. You'd get a better deal from the pig on his knees right here. At least he has some money in his pockets."

"That's right," Mac stutters out. "I can pay you, anything you want I can give it to you, just let me go."

"I don't think so," a large man, skin rough with burns--or were those scales--presses the heel of his foot against Mac's chest. "We need insurance if one of your buddies starts thinking he can play smart in B."

"I thought March already locked up the rest of the living guards in B?" The smaller, squirrely man says. "That freak had to fight Zsasz over one of them already. They're our insurance."

"If you think I'm about to ally myself, Jervis, with some beefed up cop killer you have another thing coming. He's high on something, haven't you seen the way he looks at you? Dead-eyed? I'm not about to throw my lot in with him. No, our friend here is our special protection, aren't you?" The big man crouches down and grabs a fistful of Mac's hair. "Now if only you could keep quiet."

Mac whines pathetically. Jason looks around the locker. Nothing useful. All Jason has to defend himself is a baton. One against four doubts Mac will be able to put up much of a fight looking the way he does. It would be more impressive if Mac were able to blink out of that eye.

"Shut up," the man shoves Mac's face into the rough floor. "Jesus, you'd think we were killing them or something with how much they carry on. Shut the fuck up already."

Mac quiets down, sniffling into his arm while Jason grips the edge of the baton in his hand. He has a shot. Taking them by surprise and cracking the nearest man in the head is the best shot he's got to take them out. Then get out. Hopes that somehow Mac will be able to get up and aid him. It's the best chance they have, working together. Jason doesn't know the men in the room, never saw them in the church. Prays that the muscles on the biggest man are just for show.

Like an alarm sticker on a car with no working locks. Yeah. Jason can hope.

Jason grips the baton tighter and memorizes the placement of the four of them. They continue to argue and bicker, not moving or going, the same way Gunn and the other Gotham harpies tend to do. It's as good a chance as he's going to get. He flings open the door when one gets close enough and cracks the man, Jervis, across the head like he's trying to bust open a watermelon. Jervis crumples to the floor and the three, shrouded in darkness, startle in surprise.

"Don't just stand there, grab him!"

Violence Jason knows. Might be a little bit of a negative trait seeing as a majority of priests don't know the difference between a backhand and a slap. Though most priests didn't grow up in Vinegar Hill. He's sure there are some former military preachers that know their way around a gun or can throw a punch as easily as they can take it. But none of them grew up with Willis and the wrath of his drunken rages. None of them having to learn how to fight dirty. Better to aim low and be mean than fight fair. So Jason strikes and he strikes hard. He ducks down immediately and slams the baton into the nearest man's ankle. The man, the simpering brunette with a nervous tick in his hands, screeches, and drops to his knees. Jason rises, leading with a closed fist. The brunette's rescuer doubles over, arms wrapped around his middle as he heaves in a great breath.

The biggest man towers above Jason as great as a mountain. Shock gives way to fury, twisting the harsh lines of his face in a sneer. Jason falls back.

"Get up," Jason yells at Mac. "Get up and help me!"

Mac turns on his side. Cowering fearfully as pathetic whimpers slip past his lips. A roar and the man behind his back raises his massive fists high. Jason's halfway out of the way when one lands heavily on the curve of his back. It's like getting hit with the rear end of a car. Jason slams onto the ground harsh so hard it rattles the teeth in his mouth. The baton goes flying out of his hand, sliding across the cement floor.

"One of the pigs was hiding in the lockers," the big man says. "What did I tell you? Bunch of cowards."

Jason rolls to the side and barely misses the boot that comes swiftly down beside his head. Can feel the wind rush past his nose as close as the space between two hairs. Scrambles forward on his hands and knees towards the shape of his weapon, fingers skimming over the edge of the handle. Barely gets a hold on it before a hand wraps around his neck and yanks him backward.

"Stay still," the man barks and Jason swings the baton into his ankle before darting to his feet. The man grunts but doesn't go down like the other two. Reaches out with his meaty claw of a hand and nearly wraps it around Jason's throat. That is until one of the other men decides to rejoin the fray and tackles Jason out of the way.

"I got him, I got him!" The skinnier man with the snake hiss voice jitters. "I got him, Waylon!"

"I had him, John" Waylon snarls and tears the smaller man off Jason. "Stay out of my way."

Jason's fought against bigger men once before. Most of the time the trick is to stay out of their grasp because the moment you end up in it, well, you're fucked. End of story, but most of the time bigger men expect you to run away. That's how they get their good grip on you in the first place. A lot of men don't expect someone to throw themselves into their arms. Which is exactly how Waylon reacts when Jason leaps up into his chest. Absolutely bewildered. The exhale of surprise turns into a howl of pain as Jason reaches his hands up and digs his thumbs into his eyes.

Hands wrap around his waist and squeeze. It's probably how oranges feel in a juicer with how tightly Waylon crushes his stomach in his hands. Jason doesn't let up, pushes his thumbs harder against Waylon's eyes. Something gives and his hands feel wet heat.

Waylon screams like a man possessed. Launching Jason halfway across the room as his hands reach up to his eyes.

"Holy shit, Crane he got Waylon's," John says. "Holy shit, holy shit!"

"Don't just stand there," the brunette, Crane snaps. Scrambles off the floor and hurries to Waylon's side. "Get the officer."

Jason looks for Mac, it's their best chance to escape together. Instead of seeing the man sniveling on the ground he sees the officer's back just as it disappears out of the exit door. The click of a lock and Jason's heart almost stops entirely. _Oh, oh no._

This is not how Jason's rescue was supposed to go.

It's Jervis suddenly coming back to his senses, swinging at Jason that takes his mind off that horrified realization that he's essentially trapped inside with four angry men. It's easy to take Jervis off guard, using his momentum and grappling him to another direction. To make sure Jervis isn't getting up any time soon, Jason stomps down on the ankle he'd cracked with the baton a moment earlier. Jason tries not to let the resulting squawk of pain make him falter. Crane is attending to Waylon, hands covering his face as he pants and grimaces, trying to pry his hands away from his eyes.

"I can't see," Waylon growls and grabs Crane by the throat.

"W-Waylon let go-" Crane stutters out.

Jason doesn't hesitate, he runs past the pair, just in time to hear the sickening crack of bone and a wet gasp. Doesn't stick around to wait to see if he can hear the thump of Crane's corpse hitting the floor or if Waylon barks out for help. He runs. Runs down the dark hallway of the locker room that leads into the officer showers, nearly sliding on the wet tile. Lightning flashes in the distance barely illuminating his frantic run from danger. The lights haven't come back on yet. _Where are you Dick, where's the backup power?_

He stops ducks into the first room he sees. It's another supply closet--that seems to be a bit of a theme now--and catches his breath. Lifts a hand to his mouth to muffle his panting. What in the world was he thinking? Attacking them like that, he could have been killed and made it worse for Mac. He already blinded one of the men.

Jason's throat tightens and bile, hot and tacky oozes past his tongue. Only just manages to quell the rising urge to vomit and rubs his faces with his hands. Wets his lips once and the sharp taste of copper comes almost out of nowhere. It pushes Jason to be sick, bending over at the waist as he empties the small breakfast from that morning onto the floor. Catches his breath for a moment only to heave again, splattering the wall and the floor.

"Shit," Jason groans and backs out of the closet, bringing a hand to his nose. The acidic stench nearly has him bending over again.

"Come on, Jason, get your head out of your ass," he mumbles and wipes away the remaining blood on his lips. "You got this."

Looking around reveals nothing spectacular. It's another one of the dozens of plain hallways within Blackgate's maze-like architecture. No map on the wall or signs to indicate exactly where Jason's frantic run has dumped him. Swallowing past the thick lump in his throat Jason walks forward. Silence is quickly becoming the most hated thing on Jason's "things to thoroughly dislike" list. The wild growing beat of his heart is swiftly starting to drown out the light steps of his foot down the hall.

Find the stairs. Jason has to find the stairs and reach the attic, find Gordon and then find Dick. _Where in the hell is he?_

Dick's palpable concern over Jason's safety strikes him harder than Waylon's blow. Worry about Dick's well-being after he left Jason alone in the administrative office overwhelms the little semblance of calm thought he has. Waylon mentioned an inmate named March locking up the other men. Roman has issued a bounty on whoever can get him into the armory first and, perhaps the worst of it all, was the state of Mac.

Coward that he is, Jason barely considers Mac's safety, but fears immensely what that means for any of the other officers that had remained in Blackgate. Especially Gannon, trapped inside B. That was, of course, if he was still alive.

Jason shakes his head. Stop that. Gannon might have made it out in time. Dick might have just gotten lost in the dark on the way to the basement. Gordon and Daniel-

He freezes. _Daniel_. Bleeding-heart, there's-a-little-bit-of-good-in-everybody Daniel Leone was out there for evening mass with a bunch of free-roaming inmates and nowhere to hide. It's too perfect, how ridiculously bad the universe keeps making Blackgate's situation. Like a horror movie that just doesn't know when to end. Survival tells him to continue finding a path to Gordon where he'll at least be safe behind armed men. However, a larger more vocal part of his mind has him jogging ahead. Glancing around for any mention of a sign or directions towards the church. Has to find Daniel to make sure he's alright. Then he'll find Dick and they'll turn on the backup power together if it doesn't turn on before then. _Breathe in. Breathe out._

Jason turns around the corner and runs into what must be a wall. It's firm, wide, inexplicably tall and glares down at him with almost luminescent blue eyes. Wait.

The inmate is so pale he almost disappears into the shadows if it weren't for the vivid, deep green of his uniform. Air catches in his suddenly too dry throat as Jason's eyes fall from the gaunt cheekbones of the pale stranger’s face to the symbol on the left breast pocket of his uniform. Only twelve men wear uniforms like that in Blackgate. They have their own building all to themselves, just the twelve of them. The papers know their names and have given them aliases. Blackgate's own infamous celebrities.

But they weren't really Blackgate inmates. They were the sole members of Blackgate Penitentiary's little experimental unit, Arkham Asylum members. Looming over Jason, his ice cold hand reaching out to gently cup Jason's cheek is Arkham patient #005; Victor Fries.

"Hello."

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone caught the Prison Break reference I will marry you.


End file.
